Glad You Were Born
by Halcyon Impulsion
Summary: Sammy's turning twentythree and the Winchesters flash back and move toward moving forward.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: Amy's challenge was to write a story in honor of Sam Winchester's 23rd birthday. I intended to do it fast and keep it short… and yet the story that picked me up and carried me off is going to take a little time. Help! I've been plot-bunny-napped! I know where this is going, so if you like it – never fear, it won't take me long to get you the next piece. Please do read and review - you know I love you when you do!  
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_Disclaimer: Just borrowing._

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**Glad You Were Born**

_**Chapter One**_

Sleepy eyes fluttered as John Winchester picked up his four-year-old and tucked a blanket tightly around him, trying to keep him in the same horizontal position he had been sleeping in.

"Daddy?" questioned Dean, trying to focus and then giving in to the warmth of his father's chest and the comforting scent of soap and aftershave that always identified John in the dark.

"It's okay son, just rest." John soothed.

"Where we going now?" the child's voice, muffled by his blanky, shot a surge of love through John and he instinctively held Dean closer.

"We're going to the hospital, sweetie."

"The 'sospital?"

"Yup."

"Why we going to the 'sospital?"

"It's time for your baby to get born." With this the child thrashed so hard to be upright that John, carrying him down the stairs, lost his balance and managed to keep from tumbling only by sitting down hard on the stair. His skin tingled from shock and he braced himself against Dean's sudden movement. "Whoa, boy – take it easy!" John laughed.

Dean was squirming in his father's arms, pounding out his excitement on John's shoulders with little fists. "Yeah, yeah yeah!" he squealed. John smiled at his son, emotion bringing tightness to his eyes.

"John?" Mary's voice came from the front door. Her husband heard the strain, and made the last ten steps in three leaps.

"You alright honey?" John asked as he saw his wife hugging the door jamb, feet planted widely to brace herself. Mary didn't answer immediately, her breathing was loud and Dean unconsciously drew himself to his father as his mother moaned softly.

"Take him to the car John and come back for me." Mary gasped and John, frozen momentarily, stepped past her in an instant and heard her call as he was opening the door - "put him in the front, John!"

"Guess who gets to be a big boy and ride in front today?" John smiled, keeping his voice casual, but moving quickly to settle his son in the front seat of the Impala.

"Is Mama okay?" Dean whispered, and John saw the anxiety on his son's face.

"Yes, son, she's going to be fine. It's hard work getting that baby here… that's all it is, she's just working hard." He saw Dean's face relax and thought (not for the first time) that although he didn't have experience with children other than this one, his son's tenderness and concern for others seemed unusual. He was so young, and yet Dean could see into a soul more clearly that anyone his father had ever met.

John was back to the porch in a flash, putting his arms around Mary, supporting her from behind, and she leaned into him.

"Are you okay Mar?" John asked quietly.

"Harder than Dean." she breathed.

"Can you walk?"

Mary didn't speak and John felt her body tense. She twisted against him, her hands tightening on his so that he had to stifle a wince. Time stretched and then the tension melted from her small frame and a deep sob escaped her throat. John immediately reached down, and then with an arm under her knees, headed for the car. As he got in the front seat Dean's eyes, wide and unsure, confronted him. He pulled away from the curb and put his hand on his son's knee as he drove. "It's alright Dean, Mama's going to be fine." he assured, trying to keep his voice steady and light.

John recognized the clenching in his heart – he'd felt it when Mary went in to labor with Dean, a terror it's hard to explain. His world had expanded that night four years ago and it had been both a painful expansion and a glorious one. On one hand the excitement of new life – of hope and future and a family he'd never had. On the other, the fear of endless variables – of trying to do something without instructions, starting from scratch with no frame of reference and very little control.

And now, here he was again and the feelings flooded him. Another child. A daughter… maybe a second son. A new life. A new dread. He had felt those things on his wedding day. He'd felt those things the first time he held Dean. John Winchester had no one in the universe except for Mary and Dean, and loss had followed like his own shadow until he'd met Mary. She was the first person to tell him she'd never leave him (at least there had been no pretense in his childhood) – and Mary had meant it. He wanted this life – an incredible woman, a perfect child, a true, lasting home. Yet there was still a seed of panic. Could he keep them? Was there such a thing as loving someone too much?

All of this was pretty vague, and in moments of reflection he understood that. It wasn't as though there was some specific threat that concerned him, a particular nightmare that haunted him… it was just a constant layer of apprehension beneath everything he did and felt surrounding his family. A worry he couldn't put his finger on, rational or not, that someday he would be alone again. Now that life with Mary and Dean had mended John's battered heart, accustomed him to mercy and adoration – they had become his heart, and he couldn't survive without them. He didn't want to. And so the fear remained, and he pushed it down, and it crept up and he clung to his wife and held his son and pretended that he really didn't feel it biting in his bones.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: I considered whether or not this chapter should come first… but I think with John's POV needs to come first. This chapter is almost twice the length of the first one, and since this is the only time you'll hear directly from Mary in this story, I decided not to break it up. I've tried not to terrify anyone with the birthing process, but Mary's experiences in this regard were necessary for some setting up, as well as telling a little more of her own story. We're about 1/3 of the way through this and next we hear from Dean, so hang in there! Thanks for the reviews and encouragement everyone – you convinced me to leave the laundry and the dishes for tomorrow and work through this chapter today. Comments are welcome as always…and lots of reviews wake up the muse!_

_Disclaimer: Kripke has them and he should be kinder to them.  
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_**Chapter Two**_

Mary Winchester felt the cool leather of the Impala's back seat against her cheek and focused on the sensation. In spite of the birthing class instructor's insistence that labor should be conducted with deep, fill-your-lungs-to-capacity breathing and lots of it, Mary didn't buy it. She'd tried it with Dean, and only lasted about an hour before she gave it up in favor of what felt right to her. Constantly gulping for air didn't feel right. Neither did pacing or squatting or funny little "hee-hee-hoo" breaths or primal screaming.

It felt right to slow and quiet her breathing so she could concentrate on what she was feeling, willing the little being inside her to move itself along quickly and her body to relax. Another birthing class instruction had been for John to rub her feet and whisper a list of supportive affirmations to her. It was quickly clear that those things weren't going to work for her either. She didn't want distractions – she didn't want noise, she didn't want to be touched except for John's hand snared in hers. Polite as she typically was, she growled at the nurses who came to check her blood pressure.

As a dancer, Mary was familiar with her body, with extreme exertion. She knew how to tolerate pain, she knew how to center herself and she knew how to drive through exhaustion until the work was done. When she was pregnant with Dean, Mary tried to be upfront with herself about how much giving birth was going to hurt – she'd had friends who had shied away from thinking about it until they were in it and ended up emotionally and physically pulverized by that lack of preparedness.

Ballet had taught her that good training and good practice were just about all that counted when the curtain came up. All of the little pieces that made a dancer truly great couldn't be taught anyway, they'd either be there when you needed them or they wouldn't. What would save you, was your head being in the dance and your body trained to the point that it wouldn't let you down even in a moment of terror and weariness.

Mary was not afraid of her second child's birth. As painful as it had been with Dean (John claimed she'd practically broken his hand from holding so tight last time), she'd done it, she'd lived, it had been okay. Ten hours of labor wasn't exactly a party, but it had been doable and she knew she could do it again. And at the end there would be a magnificent reward, and rest, and her body back (mostly). She opened her eyes and saw the moon, huge and vibrant in the dark sky. "I'm ready." She whispered to herself. "I'm ready and I want this."

Another contraction started and she strangled a sound, mindful of her son in the front seat, and yet he turned his head in the dark and she could feel his eyes. She braced herself and thought of Dean, focusing on the small form whose face held worry – she knew even if she couldn't see it in the dimness. _I'm alright honey. Don't worry your sweet head. Soon your baby will be here. Trust Mama – we're going to be just fine._ The contraction spiked and then it was over. Again, she felt the leather of the Impala's seat, now warm against her damp cheek and in the flash of a streetlight Dean's face was illuminated and his expression made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. The agitation was gone, and he was grinning like he'd just won a pony.

Her son's unexpected composure broke her concentration and the next wave of pain caught her off guard. She groaned loud enough to make John turn his head.

"Mary, how are you doing?" He asked, keeping his voice low. "We're almost there hon – another two blocks – are you going to be okay?" His wife didn't respond, and he jumped a little as the answer came instead from the barely four year old next to him.

"She's okay Daddy," Dean announced, practically hopping with excitement. "Don't worry your sweet head." A small hand reached to pat John's shoulder and his son leaned over, voice hushed so only his father could hear him – not realizing that his mother could too. "Mama's working hard so my baby will get here fast! We're suppose'ta _trust_ her, Daddy." The childlike little voice was undermined by the severity with which Dean emphasized the word "trust".

John was surprised – as usual – by his son's emotional generosity, but as he turned into the ambulance bay of the emergency room he missed entirely his wife's reaction to Dean's consolation of his father. Mary half raised herself, pale and astonished, to look at her small son, who turned in his seat to face her and gave her a smile that was far too uncanny for one so young and human.

The next contraction, close and more ferocious than the last one, stopped further contemplation. The Impala's door was open; nurses were helping her out of the car, John trailing them and Dean in his arms, Mary's bag in tow. The hospital staff brought her inside and they stopped briefly at the admission desk, leaving her husband and son to fill out the officialism.

Flinching, Mary closed her eyes against the lights that were too bright. The sound of bustle around her was nearly unbearable as she was guided into a room, into bed. Blessedly, someone turned out the overhead lighting and the noise diminished as Mary began to swing into another contraction. As it peaked and fell she heard an argument, low and fierce – the nurse was telling John that he and Dean would have to go. Mary waded through her psychic isolation and shook off the agony, calling for her husband and her son. Eyes closed, body tensed, she didn't stop until she could feel John's hand in hers, until she could feel Dean close by.

Mary was in a haze and the only thought she seemed to be able to grasp tight, was how much worse this was than it had been with Dean. A nurse had come in and checked her vitals and progression and Mary Winchester had been horrified at the pronouncement that she was barely more than half way there. She had been sure when she woke John – almost two hours ago now – that they were nearly done. That this baby was ready to be born. She'd had contractions all day and had managed to the point where the pain had signaled in her labor with Dean that it was about time to push. She had wanted to spend as much time at home with this baby instead of at the hospital being poked and prodded. The intensity was not letting up and the last nurse to come in remarked callously that likely, it would be quite awhile before Mary was "ready to roll".

John had finally convinced her about an hour ago to ask for some pain medication, and as much as she had planned to avoid it, she was knew she had reached a limit - everyone has them, this was hers. The nurse administered the drug with glee and told Mary she wouldn't feel a thing once it started to work - "Take a nap" she counseled cheerfully. Mary considered a list of possible paybacks as the minutes ticked by (why were institutional clocks so loud?) and while it took the edge off, and she could think close to clearly, the pain was certainly still there. Taking the scanty relief (it was better than nothing) she pulled her head out of the hurt and reasoned with herself – this wasn't finished and she needed to buck up.

She wondered now why she had thought that delivering this child would be as uncomplicated as it had been with Dean. The pregnancy had been so different… instead of feeling energetic she had been exhausted practically from the moment of this baby's conception (regardless of what the professionals said about that being impossible). Instead of a voracious appetite and a delight in unusual food combinations, there had been constant nausea from six weeks onward and the inability to eat anything with a pinch of seasoning. Instead of physical awkwardness but no real discomfort, they'd left the realm of discomfort entirely by the third month and moved into misery. With Dean, she had been herself, but pregnant. With this baby she felt inhabited by an alien and instead of sharing, the kid was just plain taking over. Instead of the powerful feeling that she knew her child and an awareness of his (she had been positive it was a boy) personality, she felt like a curtain had been drawn over her intuition – she had no clue who this child was.

Then there was the fear. The first time, her subconscious had also acted up – perfectly normal according to every book she read. But instead of the anxious dreams described by most expectant mothers, she'd been surprised with marvelous ones – sound, clarity, color and sensation unlike anything she'd experienced before. Sometimes it took several minutes after opening her eyes to distinguish between sleeping and waking. Peaceful, playful, and closeness to her unborn child – the dreams were filled with light. The universe was perfect and she was part of it; that was the impression left with her as she woke.

This time it was different. Even before she knew she was pregnant, the nightmares began. They came every couple of nights and also – as the weariness of pregnancy set in – when she napped during the day with Dean. The dreams were full or horror and darkness. She couldn't describe them to John as he held her, shaking with fearfulness and soaked with perspiration. For one thing, she couldn't seem make sense of what she felt and saw in these dreams, and two… it was real enough without speaking the details aloud - superstitions make more sense when you're scared. She would sit for what seemed like ages after one of these dreams, feeling like the interpretation was on the edge of her consciousness and yet she couldn't see enough to explain it all away. She finally had to stop taking naps in the same room with Dean, because as disturbing as it was to _her _to awake and find herself sobbing and trembling, it was even more alarming to her little boy.

Her little boy. Mary could feel him near, standing by his father… could sense his excitement and his faith in her. In his little boy mind, she could do anything and this warmed and empowered her. They'd talked about whether to have Dean with them when the baby was born and though John was hesitant, Mary couldn't imagine not sharing this moment with their son – this future belonged to all of them. John and Dean and the baby – this was her family and she never wanted them to be apart unless it was necessary. For now, it wasn't and as the next contraction came she gazed into John's eyes and steadied herself to welcome the future.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Sorry to take so long with the updating. Can we say writer's block? Family vacation? Rodent infestation? Oy. Thanks to Allie (good friends are like stars), thanks to Cynthia (this chapter is for you), thanks to my fabulous reviewers and to those who keep this website stocked with goodies with which to feed my muse. She's been hungry and saturnine the last few weeks. Today I forced her out of hiding. Hopefully y'all will feel like this was a good thing.  
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_Disclaimer: No copyright abuse intended._

_**Chapter Three**_

Dean was almost four, and he knew what Christmas meant. Tinsel and wise men. Baking with Mama. Cutting down a tree. Shiny cards in the mailbox every day. Singing, cinnamon, candles. And presents! Dean was lying in the snow in a backyard now covered with powdery angels. His nose was cold, his toes in his red boots were cold, and he was a totally happy camper. He stuck out his tongue to catch the flakes that swirled around him. He closed his eyes and listened to the stillness drifting through the air.

His eyes opened as he thought he heard his mother's voice, but it was an instant later that she knocked on the kitchen window and Dean sat up and looked toward the sound. Mary smiled, Dean waved at her and they grinned at each other. His mother beckoned and Dean pulled himself off the ground and scampered toward the back door. Mary was there to meet him and she held him close for an instant, despite the dampness of melting snow, and then helped him off with boots and snowsuit while he tugged gloves from his icy fingers.

"Are you dry enough, my Dean?" asked Mary, hanging his wet things on the hooks behind the door and heading into the kitchen.

"I think so Mama…" Dean's voice floated toward her from the hall. He rounded the corner with a question "Mama, can I have some –" but he saw her there before him and a smile leapt to his face as he saw he didn't need to ask it. Mary knelt in front of him, perched on her heels, holding his Santa mug in her hands. Through the steam that rose from the cocoa he thanked her with his eyes, and he knew she heard him.

Sitting at the kitchen table, near the window, Dean drowsed a little. His hands – too small to hold the mug properly – were loose around the half-empty hot chocolate and his mind was wandering. Mama had a secret. Dean didn't know what it was… but he knew she had one. He pushed Santa's jolly face away, and crossing his arms in front of him on the table laid his head on them so he could see the snow falling slow and fast against the window pane. He watched the universe fade white and he felt safe and held and quiet.

Mama's secret wasn't a bad one… it wasn't scary…it was something that made her happy. She smiled a lot lately, when she wasn't aware of anyone. She smiled to herself and to her secret and that was a good thing. He loved to feel her gladness surge warm around him. He'd always felt this – been able to see this love raining off of her, drenching him. But this wasn't for him, or for his father… this was for the secret… and it puzzled him a little.

Daddy knew the secret, Dean was sure. It didn't bother him that he was the only one who didn't know. He knew they were waiting, keeping the secret, passing it back and forth between them like whispering words he could see, but not hear. They wouldn't keep it from him for much longer. The secret was coming toward him like sunset did when his father drove them west on the plains. He was content to wait and let it come. The secret wasn't kept from fear, it was just kept… like a surprise… a present. Dean loved those, and the waiting, knowing something good was coming from someone who loved you – he saw that feeling as a tangible part of the gift itself. He called that feeling… hope.

Yet there was a piece of the secret that bothered him. He didn't understand how it was connected, in fact it mostly seemed like it wasn't. The darkness he saw wasn't the secret… it was only around it. Watching it. Sneaking up on the secret almost. Dean sat up and shook his head, frowning. He didn't want to think about that. Something in him worried – he felt like this darkness was familiar; it was aware that the boy could see it seeping in around his parents and the secret they waited with.

Dean Winchester's life was a safe one. He could not remember a time in his short four years, where he had been openly threatened by anything. Even when he saw the slivers of shadowy dark he wasn't really afraid. The part of him that saw it also knew it couldn't actually touch him, although he didn't know why. Protected by the circle of his parents adoration – of Dean and each other – he was a happy, ambitious, dreamer of a child.

John kissed his boy on the top of his head and tucked the covers around him like a cocoon. "All set son?" he murmured, smiling at the child's attempt to keep his eyes from closing. Dean began to nod, but then gave a negative shake, his baby-blonde hair mussed as if the night had already passed.

"I need Mama's kisses to hold, he said solemnly."

"Oh you do?" his father questioned teasingly. Dean tilted his head and frowned, too tired for the jest.

"I can't sleep without those kisses, Daddy! I need them!" the small voice pleaded with a note of panic.

"I know Dean, I know. I'll go get your mother." John soothed. "You get some sleep tonight, and I don't want you down those stairs tomorrow without me – I'll come and get you when breakfast is ready, okay?"

"But Daddy, what if you don't wake up early enough? Do I still have to wait? Why do we _have _to eat breakfast first? Dean half sat up at this point and John laughed, pushing his son back down gently and re-tucking the quilt.

"I promise I'll be up early, son – and as for breakfast…" John shrugged and leaned close to Dean's ear, his tone one of mock despair. "it's your mother's rule." Dean giggled and John sat up and grinned down at him. "And what have I taught you about your mother's rules?" Dean drank his father's smile in deeply, waiting for the answer he knew was coming. "If your Mama ain't happy…" he trailed off, the waiting now reversed.

"Ain't nobody happy in this house!"

"That's right." John chuckled and then went on, "I'm afraid you'll just have to eat those Christmas pancakes tomorrow morning so we can get down to business and see what's under that tree." Dean beamed at his father, and John ruffled his son's hair. "I'll get your mother." John said softly. "Sleep tight, Dean – I'll see you in the morning."

"Night Daddy. Sleep tight and see you in the morning."

As John stood, Mary's head appeared around the corner and Dean watched his parents' eyes meet, and the secret hung suspended between them, like a heartbeat. Their hands caught for an instant as they passed each other and then Mary was kneeling by her son's bed, her fingertips tracing his eyebrows.

"Mama?"

"Yes?"

"I need kisses to hold."

"Alright, give me your hands then." said Mary, a smile in her voice.

Dean was already wiggling out of the nest his father had tucked him in to. He held both palms out to his mother, and she took first the right, then the left, placing kiss on it and gently folding his fingers into a fist.

"Thank you, Mama." said Dean with a yawn.

"Hold my love 'til morning, my Dean and when you wake up, I'll give you some more to start the day." Mary whispered, watching as her son's eyes closed. She sat for another moment, feeling his even breath, letting the contentment fill her as though from a running tap. At the door to his room she paused and turned, leaning against the frame. Dean's eyes were still closed and he said aloud the word she heard unspoken.

"Mama?"

"Yes, my Dean?"

"Tomorrow, will it be time for the secret?" he asked.

"Yes, my Dean. Tomorrow is Christmas Day – tomorrow you get to know all the secrets." Mary said with the laugh.

He was silent and still again and as Mary moved to leave, John was there. He held her and the watched their son sleep.

"Hard to believe the little gremlin that refuses to eat green beans and fights like the devil when it's time to brush his teeth is the same angel in that bed, isn't it?" Mary asked John, her voice soft and affectionate.

"How in the world will we deal with two?" John murmured in partial jest, his arms tightening around his wife. They were both silent and then Mary spoke, her voice tinged with the practicality that always surprised and comforted John.

"Same as everyone does I suppose… one day at a time. Even with double the trouble, I think we'll have double of everything else as well – and we have some mighty fine moments together, don't we John?" Mary looked up at him.

"We do, Mar." His gaze lingered on his son and then his eyes met Mary's. "Thank you for giving me a family – thank you for _being_ my family. Thank you for giving me a home to come home to." John held her closer. "I'm glad they'll have each other – even after we're gone, they'll always have each other. It's more than either of us ever had to count on. I'm glad they won't have to be alone."

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Dean lay in his bed, half asleep, hearing the outside silence that came with a blanket of snow. The low sound of his father's laugh woke him completely and he was all the way to the doorway before he paused, bracing himself with both hands, remembering that he was supposed to wait. 

"Daddy?" he called as loud as he could, "Daddy? Are you 'wake? Come get me Daddy! He heard John running up the stairs, more than one at a time and then they were face to face, the grin of the son a mirror of the father

The blue felt stocking stitched with silver stars was limp, its contents strewn across the sofa and the crumpled wrapping paper and ribbon was six inches deep. Dean and Daddy sat cross-legged amidst the rubble, a wooden train track between them. John rumbled a low chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga to Dean's piercing woo-woo.

The sun came through the windows, patterning the room with panes, blazing as it can only be when reflecting off snow and the mood of the room matched in a lazy way. Dean paused to look at his mother, who watched them from the sofa with her head on a round blue pillow, her feet tucked under her bathrobe. The light around her was bright and content, and as they smiled at each other Dean yawned wide around his grin.

"Not yet, Mama." He pleaded as his mother began to open her mouth. "Daddy needs me to play train with him some more!" A pause came, as he glanced at John and then back to Mary.

"Alright honey – a little bit more." Mary laughed.

"Naps should definitely take a back seat on Christmas Day." John chimed in seriously.

Dean giggled and turned his attention to attaching the green boxcar to the yellow boxcar. Then he looked back at his mother.

"Mama, can I have the secret before my nap? Please?" asked Dean earnestly.

"What secret, honey?" asked Mary, giving John a puzzled glance. "We opened all the presents already…" John shrugged, his face showing confusion as well. Then he smiled and winked at her.

"You know, Mar, we do have one more thing we wanted to surprise him with today… should we do it now?" John said quietly. Dean watched the secret swirl again between his parents, surrounding and mesmerizing them.

"How about this, my Dean" Mary said, sitting up and leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "Let's clean up this mess," her gaze swept the remains of the once-tidy living room, "and have milk and cookies. Then we'll head up for a rest, and you can have that last secret. Okay?"

A ripple of excitement leapt into Dean's throat and he threw himself into his father's arms "Yes yes yes!" John landed hard on his back and groaned at the deafening jubilation.

* * *

Tucked into his bed, his tummy comfortably filled with warmed milk and cookies, Dean basked in his parent's radiance. They both sat on his bed, John with his back against the well, legs stretched out, Mary on the edge where she usually said goodnight. He had seen them shining before, but never this much – their love was as blinding as sunlight on snow. 

"How many days until my baby gets here?" he asked, voice sleepy.

"Lots I'm afraid, but we have so many things to do to get ready, it will go by like nothing at all, honey." Said Mary.

"Will you be a good big brother and help us fix up a room for the baby?" questioned John solemnly.

"Yes, Daddy." Dean pledged with equal gravity.

"Alright then – any more surprises?" John asked.

Dean's brow furrowed and he looked from one parent to the other. "Not that I can _see_." He said, hazel eyes thoughtful. John and Mary laughed a little and John headed for the door.

"Well then, have a rest my Dean, and we'll see you when you wake up, alright?" said his mother, her voice dropping to a whisper as she kissed his cheek. "Have a merry Christmas nap, sweet boy." And then she was closing the door softly behind her.

That afternoon his sleep was deep and dreamless. It was night that he first dreamed about the baby – his baby. His baby named Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: To those, especially Ty, who encouraged me to work on this story again. Many thanks to Rob for his invaluable assistance in regards to shotguns and daggers. Any inaccuracies are mine, not his. Thanks to those who take their callings as readers seriously and _**review**_ – especially spuffyshipper – if I knew how to reach you I'd thank you! Sam gets this chapter and the next (he's got a lot to say) and then it's John's turn, then Dean's and then… we'll see (we really might be done). I'll probably alternate which story I update between this and "In a Place Like This" until I finish one or the other, so those of you waiting for "Worry & Care" need to either start a letter writing campaign (LOL) or be patient. Thanks again people - your praise, faint or earth-shattering, makes my day!  
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_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended._

_**Chapter Four**_

Sam lay in bed, staring at a grouping of water spots on the ceiling which looked (tonight) like Santa Claus. If asked last night, he would have voted fire engine. He could hear Dean in the bathroom humming "Fairies Wear Boots". Sad that he could recognize Black Sabbath so easily these days. From the tell-tale sound of the water turning on and then off, Dean was shaving. Sam smiled to himself. His big brother was so weird about shaving… he'd only shave at night. Swore his face needed time to "breathe".

Sam Winchester had awoken this morning ill-rested and unprepared to face his twenty-third birthday. He'd been steeling himself since the end of March and yet, as it did every year, his mental preparation was in vain. He'd tossed and turned, spending much of the night staring into the darkness and wishing he could turn off his brain.

In his mind, there was no clearly defined event that caused this birthday dread… he supposed it was really a lifetime of little things that added up to a day in May he tried to ignore. And since the Winchester family was not exactly big on holiday bashes, it wasn't as though he had a lot of reminders so it seemed to … creep up on him like a supernatural nasty.

* * *

The first birthday memory that he had was turning five. Dean had woken him up before leaving for school with a whispered happy birthday and asked what he wanted for his birthday dinner. John didn't cook often; usually it was Dean that made sure there was something to eat. 

"_McDonalds!" Sammy whispered back, the excitement in his eyes visible in the dim morning light._

"_Are you sure?" asked Dean, and Sam hesitated a moment, remembering how hard it was to get money from Dad for groceries or anything else... fast food was expensive He should have been too young to notice, but he wasn't._

"_Well, maybe… spaghetti? With meatballs? And lettuce with tomatoes?"_

_Dean ruffled Sammy's hair, which had needed a cut several months back. Hair though, was way down Dad's list of important stuff. Might not even be on the list at all. _

"_Sure kid," Dean said with a quiet laugh. "But I think you're the only five-year-old in the universe who wants salad for his birthday dinner." With a kiss on his baby brother's forehead, Dean was up and to the door and Sam watched drowsily, feeling the longing and prickles of fear that always came when he watched Dean leave._

_The rest of the day had been ordinary. Dad didn't mention his birthday (or anything else for that matter) as he dropped Sam off at daycare. This small town had a kindergarten, but they wouldn't take Sam so late in the year – too hard for little kids to adjust in so short a time, the school claimed. So he spent his days in a flat, khaki-colored house they'd found by responding to a handwritten 3x5 card which had been posted on the mini-mart's weather-beaten tack board, over by the newspapers and chewing gum. The babysitter didn't say anything – Fawn, the smelly, pudgy, worn-down lady who fed them folded sandwiches of bologna on a bare slice of Wonder Bread, and locked them in the backyard so she would watch her Soaps._

_As soon as Dean got home from school (late, which caused trouble), Dad went out. Usually Dean made Sammy keep the TV off until after dinner, but today as Dad walked out the door, he gave Sam a grin and a nod towards the small black and white set in the corner of the small living/dining area. Dean told him there was a surprise, so not to look._

_Curious at first, he was soon lost in the cartoon universe of Inspector Gadget (Dean wouldn't let him watch anything with scary stuff in it) and Sam didn't stir until Dean called him for dinner. Unlike Dad, who made them turn it off right in the middle, Dean let him finish the show and in appreciation Sam turned it off as soon as it was over._

_He looked at Dean with absolute awe as he saw the kitchen table. Red streamers hung from the backs of the chairs and Dean had blown up balloons and taped them all over the tiny space – walls, ceiling and even the floor. The table had the dinner he'd asked for laid out on it and in the center was a cube of white cardboard about the size of a lunchbox. He ran to his brother and flung himself into Dean's arms, words failing him, a sob nearly bursting from his throat._

"_Whoa Sammy," Dean said. "What's wrong?" the nine-year-old asked, concern on his face. It took a moment for the younger boy to respond._

"_Thanks, Dean."_

"_You're welcome, buddy."_

_And so they ate, and on Sam's chair was a book about trains wrapped in tractor paper and in the box on the table was a slice of chocolate cake with a candle in it. When they cleaned up, Dean took the streamers and balloons and hung them in their room, and they stayed until Dad decided it was time to move on.

* * *

_

Sam could count on less than a hand the times in his (now) twenty-three years that his father had appeared to notice his birthday one way or the other. At eight, Dean fought with John about a birthday cake for Sam and when Dean made one anyway John threw it against a wall in a less-than-sober rage. At thirteen, John gave him a silver-handled dagger and let him skip school, only to enforce target practice with said present until the sun went down and he couldn't see the side of the barn. Sam's hand had blisters and his shoulder burned for a week.

At sixteen, the gift was an antique Winchester M-21 double barrel shotgun and (again) the "party" consisted of a full day of tactical practice in muggy North Carolina forest that left Sam barely able to move for several days. At eighteen, Dean and John fought about Sam's future, and Dean stomped out and John slammed out, and while Dean came back in two hours and apologized… John didn't come back for three days, and well, apologies weren't something Daddy Winchester really "did".

So much for happy, fun-filled, family celebrations. Dean opened the door and wandered out of the bathroom, running a hand through his damp hair.

"Where do you want to eat, birthday boy?" Dean asked.

"Wherever… you choose," said Sam listlessly, a hint of petulance in his voice.

"C'mon dude – you know if I choose, they won't serve bunny food," Dean snarked.

Sam sighed and sat up. "You don't have to do this Dean, really."

"What?"

"This…" he waved a hand in frustration. "I got over the birthday thing years ago. I'm not a kid anymore. I don't need parties and I don't need reminders."

"Reminders?"

Sam groaned inwardly. Leave it to Dean to latch on to the one part of the short rant that Sam _didn't_ want to get into.

"Forget it," he snapped, standing and snatching his jacket from the room's single chair. "Diner, three blocks down. Let's just eat and get this over with."

He felt a twinge of guilt as he watched Dean's grin fade into a mask of puzzlement; the open, relaxed look replaced with a wall. It wasn't Dean's fault, and Sam knew it wasn't fair to take it out on his big brother. Dean was the only person that had ever… always… gone out of his way to celebrate Sam's birth. And while it was in Dean's nature to be on the look out for an excuse to party… it was more than that when it came to Sam's birthday.

Dean raised his hands in surrender. "Okayyy – lead on, oh grouchy bro," he muttered, stepping back and letting Sam pass as he went for the door.

There was silence between them as they headed across the parking lot, and when Dean paused at the Impala, Sam gave a jerk of his head and they kept on walking. It was a comfortably warm evening with a soft cool breeze and as they walked, Sam tried to blow off the steam he felt scrambling around inside of himself and consciously release the stress building in his shoulders. He could feel Dean watching him, but he stared ahead, avoiding conversation during the less than ten minute walk.

Grateful for a brother who knew when to quit pushing (and occasionally did), Sam made an attempt to turn the silence into a comfortable one. He gave Dean a sheepish smile as Katelyn the waitress headed off with their order and felt relief wash over him as Dean returned the smile. He watched as Dean shifted in the booth to lean against the wall so his eyes could more easily follow Katelyn, his battle-worn hands quietly beating a heavy metal riff on the Formica table that Sam couldn't quite place.

"Sorry for… back at the room…" he began, looking down at the palms of his own less-scarred hands and then out the greasy window.

"S'okay, man – no worries," Dean said, glancing at Sam and than back at the waitress.

"I just…"

"Have some issues?" Dean finished for him, eyebrow cocked.

Sam grinned, "I guess you could say that."

As the tension between them dissipated, Katelyn brought drinks, the stuffed jalapeños Dean had ordered and Sam's house salad with Ranch. Then she lingered over the elder Winchester's "thanks for the appetizer" flirt (not to be confused with the entrée flirt or the dessert flirt). Sam ignored them and started on his salad… he always felt a little voyeuristic at moments like this and he wondered for the gazillionth time why it was so easy and painless for Dean to connect with women, or for that matter, people in general.

Despite his own good looks and relative self-confidence… Sam was a worrier and he always had been. Mostly, he worried what Dean and Dad thought about him, but he also worried what others thought at times, and this made social situations awkward. He didn't warm up to people quickly, and he hated the false sort of "so, how's the weather" relationships that appeared a strangely necessary precursor to anything more. Generally, he trusted his instincts when it came to people, but it was hard to understand how to build friendships and trusting relationships when the length of time you spent in one place ranged from twenty-four hours to seven months.

Seven months had been the longest until Stanford, and it was there that Sam had figured out how to have friends, had figured out what it was like for love to not be twisted up in grief and guilt. It was Jess that had made Sam truly grateful for his big brother… grateful for what Dean had sacrificed to teach him.

* * *

_He'd been with Jessica almost a year before he realized it, one night while holding her, soft and sleeping in his arms. The love he had for her welled up inside of him so big it brought tears to his eyes and he tried to analyze his feelings (a coping mechanism he couldn't remember not having). As it clicked he nearly gasped from the shock, and Jess sighed in her dreaming and moved in his embrace, turning over and leaving him to himself. _

_He realized now that love wasn't unfamiliar, as he often told himself it was, drawing up in his mind the arguments against a dead mother and an absent father. What he had with Jess, the safety, the love so engulfing that it was almost pain, the fear of loss so hot it threatened to bring him to his knees. He loved his brother this much. Differently of course, but **as** much. The devotion in his sweetheart's eyes was matched notch for notch with that in Dean's and like his life flashing before his eyes he saw what Dean and given… and Sam knew that he'd never have been able to take Jess' love without having taken Dean's all those years. _

_Sam and Jessica were happy because Dean had taught him how to be devoted to your family. And even though it meant he'd be left behind, Dean hadn't pleaded for Sam to stay… he'd let Sam have this life, this chance for a family of different kind than the one he'd been born into. In that instant Sam knew the price his dream had cost his brother. It hadn't been a **wrong** dream, but as he thought of how even after so short a time the idea of living without the woman laying next to him took his breath away, he could conceive the anguish that his leaving - his abandonment - had dealt his brother and it cut him deep._

_Standing silently, he looked at Jess and then went to the window, staring out at the shadowy night, unable to see the still autumn beauty without searching unconsciously for the shimmer of lurking evil. Sam had realized before that first December at Stanford came that Dean had been angry because of the secrets, not because of the aspirations… angry because Sam hadn't trusted him and John couldn't be bothered to care about someone besides himself… but not angry because of what Sam **wanted**. And as this piece of the puzzle fell into place he understood a little more of the sacrifice that Dean had made, and why he'd done it. _

_The ache was unbearable and he stood there paralyzed by midnight's pallid moon and the blood he'd shed and lost and disregarded. Jess found him as the dawn began to break and led him back to rumpled sheets and her own soothing sandalwood smell, but it was the end of his childhood (the one that had been slipping away for years). _

_Gazing at the Palo Alto stars he'd had the first conversation in his mind that didn't end with him leaving Dean at a dead run and words that trailed to nothing. The first conversation where he stopped the blame and fury in its tracks and had his brother back and had his brother's back. Somehow he'd make it right…someday when he could **end** the conversation and not just start it._

Slowly he'd built a life without Dean and John and gory goblin armies. Slowly he'd found a sense of equilibrium at Stanford; California dreamin' that when the time was right he'd know it and he'd fix this mess with Dean and maybe even Dad… but not just yet... he wanted a little more time. Then his brother showed up, and all the misty-eyed sentiment he'd felt so good about crumbled around him and he backed away, uneasy and ill-prepared. He wasn't ready yet to face this music and the surety he'd felt (so sure he'd been that he could turn them in to just another family) dissolved amid the crashing waves of twenty-years' emotion, dammed up tight but leaking slow enough to lull him into happily ever after.

Then fire, blood and leaving with the ring in his pocket and the goblin armies racing after… Another year had passed and he didn't have the guts or the strength to tell his brother everything he'd learned about himself and the universe and love. And though Dean had (to his credit) tried, Sam wouldn't give him permission to ask. Losing Jess had orphaned him in a million ways and he didn't need reminding.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note: I love my reviewers and even my silent hits… you do my heart good! This is a long chapter, but I felt like it needed to stay in one piece. Special thanks to my dear Gram and to Cynthia and Theresa. For many reasons, this chapter was especially hard to write… but as Melody Beattie says, "Sometimes we need to become frustrated to make a breakthrough in our thinking. It's all part of the process."_

As I started working on this chapter, I read a poem that seemed to fit how I felt about it. Bella graciously allowed me to post it here, but please do check out her page at: fictionpress dot com forward slash tilda emeraudeirladais – for me & the Winchesters… it's a little literal, a little figurative and I hope you can feel how it fits. Enjoy.

_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_

**Reminders  
**_7.28.06_

These moving boxes stand still,  
not quite empty of the treasures they compressed.

Most are quarantined to the garage, for the disease  
of transience weighs heavily upon those  
who tread on half-feet, fearing to wake  
the restless spirit, dusty from the road.

The rest are taught to kneel behind lustrous doors,  
clinging tight to a blurry house's memories.  
They will lasso this home, with the molasses slow movements  
of all the rest gone by. Though they linger  
at these soft-shell openings, the siren song of shifting tides  
carves persuasive paths. None can resist the effortless pull  
of a shiny, new chance.

* * *

**Chapter Five  
**

"So, Sammy," said Dean nonchalantly, mouth not empty of steak fries.

"Yeah?"

"Reminders?"

Sam looked at his brother for a long moment and then quite deliberately put the rest of the club sandwich in his mouth in one bite, effectively blocking any reply he might have made.

"I know where you live, dude," Dean rolled his eyes. "You can chew as long as you want but eventually big brother's gonna get it out of you."

Sam took a drink (like ice water was going to be strong enough to steady him for this conversation) and caught Katelyn's eye, requesting the check.

"Hey, man – cake?"

"No thanks… you're welcome to stay though," Sam smirked, "I'm sure Katelyn wouldn't mind."

"How old are you again?"

"It' not a matter of age, big brother, it's a matter of wisdom."

Dean glared at Sam and grumbled something under his breath, a charming smile descending quickly on his features as the waitress stopped in front of them. She ducked her head at Dean's frank gaze and giggled as she set chocolate cake in front of Dean, apple pie in front of Sam, and the bill face down under two clean forks in the center of the table.

"Um, we didn't order dessert…" Sam said quietly, interrupting the practically cooing love birds.

"On the house," Katelyn blushed, keeping her eyes on Dean's for a second longer and walking away as only one who knows she's be watched can strut.

Shaking his head at his brother, Sam began to eat the pie in front of him, avoiding the appraising look Dean gave him. As he had before, he wondered (though not particularly seriously) if Dean hadn't ended up with some freaky power of his own… his ability to read Sam like an open book went from irritating to downright problematic at times.

They finished eating and while Dean paid and paid compliments, Sam stepped outside and took a few deep breaths, trying to ease the hitch in his chest. The reality was, he could shut Dean down and end the questioning. It wouldn't be pleasant, but he'd done it more times than he could count, just as Dean had done it to him… and the world kept on turning. But was it what he really wanted? Was it really useful?

The other option was to lay himself open and tell Dean the truth… as much as Dean would take. His brother wouldn't laugh at him, he'd listened to Sam's moaning and groaning for the first eighteen years of his life without so much as a complaint. But in the past months Sam had seen how tightly Dean held his own wounds. Whenever Sam tried to delve into their shared past, or deal with emotional details… Dean cried "chick flick" and the blast doors whammed shut on big brother's soul.

Telling Dean the truth would be fine, if Dean could actually handle the truth, but Sam wasn't sure about that. His days of wanting to strike out at his brother (because he knew Dean wouldn't even flinch) had passed… and the thought of inflicting pain in order to ease his own agony seemed petty and useless. To harm his brother would be harm himself and he'd done enough damage over the years… Dean had done so much protecting and pretending to try and keep Sam safe, at the expense of his own life in a lot ways. Sam owed it to him to try and carry more of the load. And while it was a logical and sense-making choice, it choked and skinned him as he considered it. The idea of facing the darkness on his own left a lot to be desired – even if it was only the darkness in himself.

"Hey, sunshine," said Dean as he sauntered over to where Sam stood at the curb, lightly punching him on the shoulder.

"Hey."

"Want to catch a movie? Play some pool? Cruise a little? Main Street's only a few blocks long, but you never know…" Dean smirked naughtily.

Sam glanced at his brother and then took an interest in the pavement at his feet.

"What?" Dean asked in what Sam had come to think of as his easy-breezy-so-not-threatening voice, specifically designed to help Sam think his big brother wasn't concerned.

"How about we just take a walk?"

Dean showed only the briefest instant of total surprise before he nodded. "Alrighty, birthday boy – whatever you say."

Sam gave him an awkward smile. "Thanks."

"Sure, man – left or right?"

"Uh, whatever…"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Okayyyy…" and started to walk the opposite direction of the motel.

Sam stumbled as he strode to catch up and then slowed his pace to match his brother's. Taking a deep breath, he spoke.

"So, you still want to know?"

There was a beat of time and then Dean replied, the same easy-breezy thing still going on.

"Reminders?"

"Yeah."

Dean was silent for a moment; the only sounds reaching Sam's ears were the rustling of the crab apple trees planted at even intervals along the sidewalk and the smack of the brothers' boots on the concrete.

"Go ahead. Let the cat out."

Sam gave Dean a fleeting look out of the corner of his eye and took a deep breath, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, trying to find his voice… hoping desperately that this wasn't the wrong thing to do. It could easily go badly and Dean could take Sam's childhood hang-ups personally (seeing as how he'd worked so hard to keep Sam from having hang-ups). Why, again, was he thinking this was a good idea?

He sighed and shook his head, trying to clear it. The fact that Dean had kept his mouth shut and hadn't said anything rude yet was evidence that the elder brother was honestly listening… and since that didn't happen often, maybe this was a sign. Onward, ever onward…

"There are a lot of … things… that I know in my head. About our family, about Mom and Jess… about me…" Sam began slowly. "And yet they don't _feel_ true most of the time," he paused, trying to sort out what had been snaking it's way through him for weeks now (the way it did every year). "I can't seem to get it to make sense."

"What?" Dean asked, simply.

"I don't know. I mean, sometimes it's anger… and I try to deal with it… a lot of times it's guilt," he looked for Dean's reaction, but got nothing. Clearing his throat he continued. "Sadness I guess, I don't know," he laughed mirthlessly. "Maybe more like hard-core grief."

"So you do know."

"Huh?"

"You may not like it," Dean said quietly and without a trace of derision, "but you know what it is – or at least what it feels like."

Sam gaped in surprise but recovered quickly, trying to organize a sentence.

"Yeah… I suppose that's true."

They walked a little more – hitting the end of the street, crossing, and starting back along the other side by mutual (unspoken) agreement.

"Most of the time it doesn't bother me, you know? I can handle it…" Sam trailed off as Dean gave him a probing look. "I mean, I know it's still there, but… there's just so much of it… I don't know where to start. Or how to start."

"Start?"

"I don't _know_!" Sam said, the frustration loud and clear in his voice.

"What is it you think you need to do?"

"Get over it!" Sam hissed, trying to keep his voice low as his pent –up emotion exploded.

Dean stopped in his tracks and turned to face Sam. "Get over what?" His expression seemed to be one of irritation, and Sam's stomach wriggled nervously. Dean continued, "Get over your feelings? The pain? Losing Jess? Losing Mom? Dad? Blood and guts and burning bones? Get over _what_?" Dean's voice was raw now, and Sam could feel the anguish rolling off his brother in waves. He'd worried Dean would take this on himself, and it seemed to be heading in that direction quickly.

"Dean, I…"

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean said shortly, starting to walk again, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

The discussion ceased for a time as they reached the motel, but bypassed it (again, without a word), and began to work their way back down the sidewalk.

"I don't want you to think I'm angry at you, Dean," Sam said in a low but strong voice. "I have been," he ducked his head and peered at his brother with a grin, trying to ease the upset with humor (as he'd learned from Dean) "but I'm not. Not now."

Dean didn't respond, just looked away, the set of his face telling little about his thoughts except that they were troubled. It took another block and a side of the street change, before he spoke.

"So what's the deal with your birthday," Dean asked, his voice so flat that the intonation didn't even sound like a question.

Now Sam looked away, closing his eyes and hating the place they'd arrived at and yet wanting it … this disclosure… this opening of the sepulcher that was their history. Even a crack, some purchase in its slippery isolation would be welcome.

"I was born, Dean and everyone I've touched since then has been to Hell and most of them haven't come back. . my mother died and my father _checked out_," the last words were spoken with stinging resentment.

Dean's focus was still on the ground they walked and he didn't say anything, so Sam began again, hushed now.

"And then Jess… and you."

"Me?" Dean looked up, startled.

Sam stopped and waited for Dean to do the same. His brother came to a stand still a few steps ahead of him and turned, hesitating to meet his head-on gaze. Sam closed his eyes and rubbed his face roughly with both hands, as though trying to scrub away the turmoil he felt. Dean was as still as a deer caught in the blinding flash of oncoming headlights and Sam rushed his words… trying (one way or another) to put him out of his misery.

"I know what you've done for me Dean… what you've given up… what you give up every day so that I can have permission to think I'm choosing my destiny and a safety net when I realize that this freakin' destiny is choosing me." His voice was steady and calm as he spoke, and some distant part of his brain was surprised about that, considering the screaming terror that threatened to overwhelm him any second. He waited for his brother to make a wise-crack, to call him a gutter-found name and shake this all off, but it didn't come.

Face drained of color; Dean didn't recoil, but kept his gaze locked on his little brother. In the waning daylight Sam could see a brightness in Dean's eyes and a stillness enveloped the eldest, who held his breath and didn't move except for a slight tremble along his usually stubborn jaw line.

Sam spoke, praying Dean would hear no blame or rancor… would hear only what Sam had waited four years to say… would hear more than just the truth of who and what the Winchesters were. He prayed that Dean would hear that the dream his baby brother had always held the closest was the one where they were just what Dean wanted them to be… that in the end, it was what Sam wanted them to be too.

"It's hard, Dean. My birthday. It reminds me of how much I've lost… so many things I might have lost if I'd ever been given the chance to have them," he held up a hand as Dean's tried to respond. It took all his strength to speak past the panic and suffering in his big brother's expression. "Most of the time, your patience and your… snark," his grin held a little sadness, "most of the time it keeps me steady and I take it for granted, I take it as something I deserve because you've always given it and that love is the only thing I've ever been able to count on… through everything."

"Sammy," Dean whispered.

"Let me finish, Dean." It wasn't a proposal. "Most days I don't know why I was born – most days I can find a few good reasons I _shouldn't_ have been." He gazed at the twilight sky, the first few stars appearing out of nowhere. "Jess… being with her…justified a lot for me," he said, staring and not seeing, these words almost for himself alone. "I felt I had a purpose of my own. Not just the family business… but a family. I wanted that. I wanted that with Jess."

Swallowing, he focused again on Dean's face. "And then she was gone, and again you saved me and instead of being grateful I wanted nothing more than to kill or be killed." He paused, "I know Dad loves us…but most of the time he doesn't see us, Dean. You know that. He can't. I believe Mom loved me… but she's gone, and the only memories I have are of the stories you've told me – I don't have a single one of my own. Loving her is like trying to hold the ocean," he shook his head at a remembrance, a warm smile relaxing his features.

"We spent a lot of time at the beach last summer, me and Jess. We tried, sometimes to catch a wave…and the thing is, you can't. It comes and it goes and you let it touch you – even wash over you – and then you have to let it slide away. The course it has to run, it… intersects with yours, you make each other different… but then it's done and over. You can't hold the ocean. And I can't hold Mom."

"I know it's different for you… for you _and _Dad, and I respect that," Sam's voice was utterly gentle now because although he could see how much this hurt his brother, he was too far in to stop it now. "But it's cold comfort, Dean – cold comfort that once upon a lifetime I don't remember I had a mother that loved me," it came out rushed and then he stopped abruptly.

"And yet. I have you. And there is no one in the world I'd rather have as family, than you. I couldn't ask for more than what you've given me, Dean. You've given me everything you've ever had," his voice gained energy "and it really _has_ been enough – enough to see me through and carry me forward."

"You are the bittersweet conundrum of my birthday, bro," he said with a hint of lightness. "Another year of living reminds me what I've left behind… reminds me of everyone and everything I've been abandoned by," a beat went by and the final tumbler fell in place. "But you, every year – even when I shut you out – you remind me that someone out there sees a method to the universe's madness. Even if nobody else does or ever did…you wanted me and you're glad that I was born."

He saw the question in Dean's face and responded before it was asked. "It's hard to be loved sometimes… hard to let that in and let it make a difference. It's a lot… easier… to batten down the hatches and not have to actually live my life and deal with all the guilt and grief and mess. It's easier to tell myself that no one cares and all that's left is revenge and that it's fine and dandy to kill myself – death by demon… mutually assured destruction. Nothing's more important."

"And yet, there's something my big brother won't let me forget..." he smirked and this time Dean smiled back, if tentatively. So my birthday is rough. I want to jump off a bridge or throw myself to a pack of rabid werewolves… and yet you get all chick-flicky on me; let me choose the restaurant, offer to take me to the movies," Sam rolled his eyes. "What am I supposed to do? Leaves me conflicted and confused, dude."

They stared steadily at one another, Sam hoping Dean would take the offered out and let the dust settle easily around them. It's not like some massive change needed to come from this conversation… a well-healed scar to prove what they'd been through, was enough.

"Sorry," said Dean, the word of remorse checked by the sarcasm with which it was uttered.

"Sure you are. Jerk."

"And proud of it."

"Dean..."

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Thanks."


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: Thanks to Theresa and Cynthia (again) and to all of my reviewers. It really does help to know that you're reading and enjoying. Not a lot to say about this chapter. One more for sure (that would be Daddy Winchester) and then _**maybe**_ a bonus at the end. I haven't decided about that. Anyone interested in a final Mary chapter? Oh, and while there seems to be debate on how long exactly Sam was away at school and how long he and Dean were estranged... I think Sam was gone four, but it was only the most recent two that they weren't talking, so that's what is reflected here : )  
_

_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_

**Chapter Six**

They stood grinning for a minute or two – a pair of twins despite their differences – each resisting (for the sake of the _other's_ masculinity of course) the embrace which would have seemed natural if cameras were rolling.

Interrupted by the letting out of a movie at the end of the block, they started walking, separated some as the street was flooded with people. They drifted back toward the motel, each in their own space.

Dean took a deep breath and almost uttered an audible sound of bliss. It wasn't often he was outdoors at this time of night – unless he was killing something – and he reveled in the warm, sweet evening air. As he stepped off the curb, jaywalking towards the motel's parking lot, his eyes found Sam in the crowd and he felt a surge of adoration rush through him. For once, he didn't shut it off – just let it run like a warming engine, letting it fill his chest and push a content smile to the surface.

His brother's disclosure had brought on a sense of freedom for the moment – freedom from worrying about whether Sam would be okay and whether or not _they'd_ be okay. He couldn't remember the last time that'd been the case. If he wasn't thinking about Sammy living through the next hunt or dealing with Jessica's death or fighting with Dad, he was worrying about whether or not his relationship with Sam would ever completely recover from the time they'd spent apart, and the fight(s) that had kept them from talking to one another for two years.

Most of the time things seemed alright between them, but Sam mouthed off more – if that was possible – than he used to and Dean was still figuring out how to deal with Sam's argumentativeness without causing World War Three to take place in the Impala (or a diner, motel, rest stop, haunted house, etc.). In the past, Sam's anger had been directed at Dad and Dean was the one Sam came to in order to cool off or find back up. Now, Dean bore the brunt of his little brother's frustrated explosions and he was trying to work himself back into that head space where he could be the big brother and blow Sam's tantrums off and love him anyway – instead of wanting to hog tie him with duct tape and toss him in the trunk, which is what currently came more quickly to his mind.

Ah, how things change. Dean had spent pretty much his whole life being in the middle until Sam left, and then all of the sudden there was nothing more for him to mediate. When Dad needed an excuse to go ballistic and let off some steam, Dean was the only one left to _be_ that excuse and he'd wished for an older brother to get between him and his father on more than a couple occasions. John had never been physically violent towards his children – well, no more than the average lonely, demon-hunting widower. But he could be pretty scary at times since for it, he substituted violence towards inanimate objects and a self-destructive streak that he only managed to pull back from at what seemed, to those who cared about him, the last possible second.

Then Dad was gone, and Dean enjoyed an autonomy and liberty that he'd never really experienced before. Terror and loneliness? Yes. Delight in going as fast and as far as he wanted to? Totally. And with Dad only a phone call away, Dean hadn't recognized how much the safety-net of his father's strength had cradled him during this fledgling foray from the nest until it was too late and John was nowhere to be found.

So he went to Sam, fully intending to order him away from whatever new life he'd found – or alternately, plead in desperation for his help. Looking back, Dean wasn't sure any tactic would have worked short of rendering Sammy unconscious, kidnapping him and keeping him handcuffed to the seat until they were a thousand miles from Stanford. Which wasn't Dean's first choice, but not outside the realm of what he'd been ready to do.

There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Sam would not have left Jessica willingly, not even for Dean, not even for their father. Thus, he had some moments of real guilt about Jess. Dean had petitioned the heavens mightily for Jess to be removed from the picture so Sam would choose to join him again. Of course... dripping blood and a fire on the ceiling weren't at all what he had in mind, but still. He knew it wasn't rational and that helped him deal with it some, yet here was a part of him that wished he hadn't wished her away – even if it wasn't his wish that did the deed.

Now, with John dropping in and out – mostly out – Dean was left to pick up the pieces of their familial dysfunction and try to make things work. He was back to being in the middle, protecting both Sam and John from themselves, each other and, oh, any supernatural shadow that happened to fall across their path. Back to holding it in because there was only room in this freakin' fraternity for so much misery and given the choice between shouldering his father's grief and his brother's agony or shrugging the atlas for the energy to face his own – there was no choice. He'd rather struggle to hold this dangerous heartache by himself, surrounded by his family, than heal himself while they imploded like the supernova of a massive, dying star.

He'd spent a long time avoiding his feelings – submerging the pain and loneliness and fear in the murky depths of an admittedly less-than-healthy psyche. Dean had found a formula for survival that worked and he spent an enormous amount of energy on it. More time, he'd considered lately, than he was sure he wanted to spend. And things were changing – Sammy was about grown up, and Dean had begun to wonder if maybe it wasn't time he did a little more of that himself.

Staying at least one developmental step ahead of your genius kid brother isn't always easy, even for someone who's a genius in their own right. While Sam seemed always to crave to be bigger and older and smarter – from the time Dean took over as parent and protector – Dean had longed constantly for time to slow down or even come to a full stop. There were a lot of things he simply had to skip over or dash through because he needed to be there for his baby brother. While he didn't resent Sam, Dean definitely held an awful lot of resentment toward various and assorted other individuals.

Consciously, he focused on the acid-eyed demon, and in recent months had come to include its creepy-freak "children" in that lump-sum of hatred… particularly Meg of the Eternally Bad Hair Day. Sam may have been a reason behind the demon's choice of victims, but Dean had been certain that if it wasn't Sam it would be someone else's family being terrorized. He really didn't take the demonic interest personally and did everything he could to keep Sammy from doing it either. It wasn't anyone's fault that their family had been marked except the demon's and taking on the blame wasn't useful for anyone, in Dean's opinion.

Finding out that it _was_ happening to other people had been both a blessing and curse for the Winchesters. It's nice to know you're not the only evil-magnets in the world – nobody likes that kind of celebrity status – and yet the recognition of the magnitude of the problem and the suffering of others was something hard to take, for both brothers.

* * *

Opening the door to their room, Dean stepped carefully over the salt line on the floor and glanced around for Sam. The bathroom door was shut and so he assumed his brother was probably occupying it. He sighed at the untidiness that a week of Winchesters created in the small space but decided firmly not to think about it until at least tomorrow. 

Sitting down on the bed, he shoved the clothes and towels off the foot of it and then reached down to unlace his boots. He hesitated a minute and leaned toward the bathroom.

"Hey, Birthday boy – did you want to go out tonight?"

"Dude. In the bathroom. No talking," came Sam's muffled voice.

Dean lay back on the bed, keeping his feet on the floor, and chuckled. Sammy had privacy issues. He refused to talk while he was in a restroom with a closed door, and Dean pondered the last time he'd purposely aggravated Sam by chatting with him in a public men's room while Sam was locked in a stall.

The place had been full, and Sam had nearly died of embarrassment from the looks of sympathy he'd gotten on the way out. And Dean had snickered for days. Men did _not _talk to one another in bathrooms. Dean found amusement in switching roles with Sam at the most surprising moments – most would think it was Sam the Sensitive who wouldn't mind powder room conversation while Dean the Macho would be cringing and cursing. Dean the macho, however, was willing to stoop pretty low sometimes for a little sibling humiliation – the reward often outweighed the cost when you didn't have a reputation to maintain while passing through a nameless Podunk, population: 128.

"Welcome back, Sammy," said Dean with a snicker as his brother exited the bathroom.

"Whatever, man," Sam replied, irritation evident in tone and expression.

"So, what're you up for tonight? This looks like one of those places where they bury the proper pool playing establishments on the outskirts of town –" he paused and sat up, grinning, "or I can let you choose a movie – anything you've been wanting to see? We got Pay-Per-View or…" he snapped his fingers, trying to remember, "that chick flick playing at the local place."

"Last showing started twenty minutes ago… thanks anyway," Sam said rolling his eyes. "I'd rather just stay in I think. Been a long day."

Dean nodded and gave a sigh, reaching again for the laces of his steel-toed boots. "Toss me the remote – let's see what's on TV. We've got all kinds of season finales comin' up in the next little while," he said, practically rubbing his hands in anticipation.

Laughing, Sam threw the controller to his brother. "Need to catch up on your soaps?"

"No daytime TV, bro – that stuff will rot your brain," Dean deadpanned. "Educational television only," he said seriously.

"CSI? Law & Order? Stargate?"

"Dude. Those guys have impeccable skills of deduction and investigation. I learn something new every time."

"Impeccable?" Sam smirked.

"You're not the only one who can use four-syllable words, college boy."

"Sorry. Just more used to hearing the four-_letter_ ones from you."

Dean looked insulted. "There's more than one way to get an education – and I'd bet good money my vocabulary is larger than yours."

"More creative at least."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," said Dean, unable to keep a smirk of his own off of his face.

Sitting against the headboard, Dean channel surfed at a pace Sam considered dizzying. He stopped on the X-Files. "Ah, the good old Chupacabra."

"You've seen this one a million times, Dean."

"I know – and every time it just gets better. You gotta admire people who can deal with extra-terrestrial mold. Nasty."

"Demons and poltergeists, but no mold?"

"Nope. That's what we've got Mulder and Scully for. And they're so cute together," he sighed, grabbing another pillow and stuffing it behind him as he settled in.

"I did _not _just hear you say that," gasped Sam.

"What?"

"You're a 'shipper!"

"Huh?"

"For Jess it was Bobby and Alex … I really never pegged you, man." Sam was laughing, hard.

Dean looked at him as though he'd grown a second set of arms and turned back to the television. "Whatever, dude." A commercial came on, and Dean began to flip again.

"Change your mind?"

"What?"

Sam shook his head. Dean's almost super-human powers of observation where definitely dulled when the remote was in his hand. "I thought you were gonna watch X-Files."

"Gotta have a back up, Sammy," Dean said, giving his little brother a look of disgust. "Didn't Dad teach you anything?"

Sam gave Dean a blank look, totally lost.

"Well, he might not have realized it applied to my viewing habits, but I hate wasting my life on commercials – so I always have a back up show. During X-Files commercials, I watch something else, and during _those_ commercials, I watch X-Files. Perfect," he smiled at Sam, who was completely speechless.

"You're sick," said Sam, finding his voice.

"Hey, I offered to let you choose – if you're not gonna vote, shut up."

"Whatever," Sam muttered, reaching for the laptop. "Happy birthday to me."

"And many more, on channel four and Scooby Doo, on channel two…"

* * *

Following the X-Files re-run and Bones, Dean had moved on to Charmed and CSI:Miami re-runs, followed by a creepy Sci-Fi Channel original movie and Crossing Jordan. Turning the TV off, he stretched and stood up. Glancing over at Sam, who was focused on the computer screen, he noted that his little brother's head was nodding. 

"Ready for sleep, bro?"

Sam's huge yawn seemed to swallow his face and then he nodded and sat up. " Yeah." He reached over and grabbed his duffle, setting it on the bed and rifling for something to wear to bed. "How early do you want to get out of here tomorrow?"

"As soon as we can. The road is callin', man," Dean grinned. "Go ahead and do your thing first," he said, motioning toward the bathroom. "I'm gonna check my email.

Sam's eyebrows shut up, hiding themselves in his artistically shaggy hair. "Your email?"

"Yes. Even _I've_ got mail, dude – now go brush your teeth," Dean said with a testy tone.

Shaking with not-so-silent laughter, Sam walked by as Dean picked up the laptop and settled himself on the bed with it.

"I won't be long, so if you need any help…"

Dean glared at him and threw a pillow, only to have it hit the door as it closed on Sam's smirk. He sighed and waited for a moment, listening for the sink to turn on and when he heard it, he set the laptop on the table and was over at his own duffle in two strides. Looking at his watch he moved quickly, removing a flat package wrapped in plain blue paper, a silver ribbon tied simply around it. Furtively checking the door, he retrieved his own flannel pajama bottoms and shed his jeans and t-shirt in favor of them.

He stuck the gift under the far pillow on Sam's bed, hit the lights and climbed into his own bed, hunkering down and pulling the covers up high, waiting for the sound of the bathroom door.

Even the years that Sam was at Stanford – even the years they were not speaking – this ritual had been a bottom-line, grounding ritual for Dean. It had started when Sammy was five and had told Dean he wanted a particular book while they hung out at Wal-Mart one Saturday in April. It was wrapped and on the table for the boy's birthday a few weeks later, and the delight on his little brother's face was something Dean would never forget. And it was something he strove to duplicate every year for Sam's birthday.

He didn't know if it mattered to Sam as much as it did to him – but after today, he had the feeling that it had made a difference. Especially those years while they were apart, and the plain, brown paper packages had arrived at wherever Sam was living…no return address, no card. It had been the only way Dean could think of to wedge the door between them open when it seemed to him that Sam was using every ounce of muscle he had to lock that door up tight. Dean loved his family and he let himself remember that with a flourish of rare sentimentality on Sam's birthday.

A sliver of light shone briefly and then it went out and Dean heard Sam padding quietly across the carpet, the springs of the bed creaking as he climbed in. He listened to the sounds of Sam settling in – his baby brother was like a bird building a nest at bedtime. Everything had to be just so, or Sam couldn't get a night's rest worth a hill of beans. Dean smiled to himself and thought for the thousandth time that someday, he'd buy Sammy a bed sized especially for giants so that the kid didn't have to sleep diagonally.

"Dean? You awake?"

Not answering, Dean focused on keeping his breath even and himself still.

"Dean?"

Still no answer.

"Goodnight, man."

Dean began to snore softly, just enough to prove the point, not enough to sound fake.

"Thanks for the day, bro," Sam chuckled quietly.

Dean waited, counting seconds, and right on cue, he heard a stifled exclamation of pain. Sam had turned over. The bedside light came on and he heard the sound of the wrapping paper being opened stealthily. Such a considerate guy, that Sam. The silence that ensued was broken only but the rustling of turning pages, and Dean allowed himself a satisfied grin as he heard Sam adjust the pillows and the light burned on.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Author's Note:** Special, special thanks to Cynthia, Faye, and Theresa for reining me in and patting my head and pushing me onward. Your pictures should be in the dictionary next to the word amazing :) Thank you so much to all my reviewers… It means a lot that you've taken the time to tell me how you're feeling and what you think. Several people seemed interested in the bonus (Mary) chapter, so it's on the way! _

_I apologize for my timeline suggestion in the previous chapter's AN. I'm fixing it, and now have the season one timeline appropriately adjusted in my silly little head._

_Warning! Most of this is dark and disturbing, as John's introspection takes place… under duress, shall we say. It's not overly graphic, but fire, violence, torture, angst and, oh, character deaths are included. For those of you who love John – hey, I didn't do it on purpose; it just worked out this way. I'm making my peace with him (slowly but surely)._

_**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement intended._

xXx

**Chapter Seven**

_He could feel a cool breeze on his face as he opened the front door, puzzled by the shadows that should have been eased by the porch light. And the door wasn't locked. That was odd too. It didn't concern him, really, he just… wondered about it._

_The living room was also dark… the whole house seemed devoid of life. Maybe Mary had gone to a movie, or had a meeting she'd forgotten to tell him about. That arts' council thing was gearing up and it'd turned out to take more time than she'd expected. But, with the boys out on their own, he knew she was enjoying more involvement in the community. Lawrence was a cultural hotspot and Mary was in high demand because of her dance experience and her passion._

_Smiling to himself, he wandered upstairs, opening first, the door to Dean's room. Mary had insisted that they keep the boys' rooms for them until they were married, and since it wasn't like they needed the space, John had humored her. She'd told them that they would always have a place to come home to; no matter what, no matter why. She'd updated them over the years… turning them from the personal spaces of two very different teens, to rooms comfortable for budding doctors and lawyers. _

_The wall opposite the door held photographs in matching black frames, stark and sleek against the silvery wall. A few adorable childhood moments with his brother, the winning of track meets and science fairs, high school, college and KU Med graduations, and the newest one – his first day of pediatric residency at the university's medical center. John's heart swelled with a mixture of emotion which included pride and love. _

_Dean had taken longer to choose a path than his baby brother had, and although his family had been surprised at his decision to practice medicine (the degree in Industrial Design not preparing them to expect it), John knew that without a doubt his firstborn son had found his true calling. He'd seen Dean work with children, and his gut told him it was more than just the hope of a fond father. Dean was going to be a brilliant physician in far more than just the technical aspects of the job. _

_John and Dean had a standing lunch appointment on whatever day Dean had off, and when his parents heard a bump in the middle of the night, it meant their eldest son was hunting in their kitchen for something to eat (which meant he needed to talk to his dad). Dean spent an afternoon working in Mary's garden with her a couple times a month and even though his crazy rotation schedule kept them from setting plans too firmly, Sunday dinner was an open invitation that Dean availed himself of as often as he could. The Winchesters were a close-knit family and the bonds had only grown stronger as the boys grew, for which John was grateful._

_Walking back into the hall, he glanced at the photos Mary had arranged on the sage green backdrop between the doorways… these were mostly professional shots, all printed in black and white to create a cohesive family timeline. They chronicled the boys from infancy, and John and Mary beginning with their engagement portrait. School pictures, Christmas pictures, and the anniversary picture Mary dressed John up for and hauled him off to every fifth year. _

_In a couple more, they'd hit thirty and John gazed for a moment in wonder at her face on the wall, bled of color but not of life. Time had only made her more beautiful – as cliché as that sounded, it was true – and he thanked the Fates again for filling up his empty life with exactly what he'd always dreamed of. A happy family. Everything he'd endured as a child he would endure again, to have Mary and the boys._

_Standing in his younger son's room, John smiled. Sam came home less often than Dean did these days. California was a long way from Kansas and air travel was a sight more costly than clicking the heels of your ruby slippers – yet it was Sammy's room that held the most evidence of the life he was currently pursuing. Not ready to let go of home, even though he was so far away from it, each trip included him leaving much of what he'd brought and semester's end meant boxes of books and papers mailed back to this midnight blue room for safe keeping._

_Mary had left Sam's glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling removing them when she painted and then putting them back up when she was done. They were clearly visible in the moonlight, and John remembered with a chuckle helping Sam carefully placing them for the first time nearly a dozen years ago. Even then, Sammy had been a little scientist and he lay on his bed with A Pictorial Galactic Encyclopedia, making sure his father got everything celestially accurate. It had been the beginning of a love affair with the heavens, which culminated in Sam's minor in Astronomy. Shelves lined the room, with legal books bearing witness to his Pre-Law (soon to become actual law) major, and volumes in a dozen languages besides his native tongue indicative of the second minor (Sam had a bit of an over-achiever complex his father suspected) – in Linguistics._

_As he sat on Sam's bed, he became aware of light, flickering across the ceiling and his gaze turned toward the window that faced the back yard and Mary's garden. His brow wrinkled in concentration as he tried to think what could be creating the dancing glow. Slowly, he stood and walked to the window, brushing aside the curtain, taking in the bizarre scene below, his eyes widening as comprehension dawned. _

_Frozen, he stared in horror at the nightmare on display below him – his wife and sons were tied to tall wooden stakes, arms high above their heads, feet… in the flames of the pyres under them. With a strangled, disbelieving cry, he turned and ran to the door – which slammed closed with a deafening sound that somehow did not drown out the tortured screams now reaching his ears. Try as he might, the door would not budge and after a few seconds he raced back to the window, unlocking it and trying desperately to raise it. Like the door, it was… stuck, and logic left him as he searched the room wildly for something to break the glass with._

_Picking up the desk chair, he threw it with all his might, and the window shattered. Smoke, acrid and choking, filled the small bedroom and he climbed up and out onto the roof. Two stories up and no way down except a suicidal jump, John bellowed in his own agony. Standing above it all, he now saw several dozen people assembled in front of his family and he sobbed – pleading for help, begging for the deliverance of Mary, Dean and Sam. The group seemed oblivious to the figure on the roof, and they continued what John could now distinguish as chanting in a language unknown to him._

_Suddenly he felt strangely hollow, and he fell to his knees as he gazed on the faces of his family, meeting their eyes – filled with terror, confusion and reproach – he saw the life force drift away, their heads dropping as they were released into unconsciousness… or death. The blazing fires leapt, consuming the beloved figures, and the company of observers turned as one to look up at John and they spoke, the clamor overwhelming his senses but the words clear. "Your doing. Your blood. Your reward." _

_Delivering the verdict once seemed not to be enough, because they kept at it, growing louder and more raucously frantic by the instant. John Winchester raised his eyes and his arms to the silent sky and issued a shout filled with the pain of a solitary, tormented soul – "No!" And then he jumped._

xXx

It was pitch black when he opened his eyes, and the disorientation he felt freaked him out almost more than the horrific pain in his head and left arm did. For a moment he thought he was lying on the grass in his own backyard, the sting of bitter smoke causing his eyes to water.

As his vision adjusted to the darkness, he automatically took stock. His arm wasn't broken, but there was an awful lot of still-damp blood. Probing his forearm carefully, he winced as his fingers found a half dozen gashes almost an inch wide scored into the skin. Logically, they couldn't be too deep or he wouldn't be conscious, but gaping wounds were prone to infection and thus were not a good thing to be hanging around with.

The pain in his head seemed to be radiating from the near the crown, slightly behind the right ear. He was gentle as his fingers explored his scalp and was grateful in a weird sort of way when he found a goose egg – literally about that size. Swelling outward meant it wasn't swelling inward, which was good news for his brain. His hand came away sticky and slick, but the slice in the skin seemed to be fairly small so he figured it was mostly surface damage – even little head wounds bleed a lot.

It was difficult to make out where he was… there was barely a lick of light for his eyes to take advantage of. He was on the floor (cold, damp stone), weaponless but clothed, alone and unbound. The last observation caused him the greatest concern – captors who left you free to roam generally made sure there wasn't much room to roam. If they'd left him without tying or shackling, they didn't expect him to cause much ruckus. This meant those holding him were either very stupid, or very powerful. Either way, it made him nervous. Power was predictable. Stupidity, not so much.

He then turned his thoughts to the less easily answered questions swirling in his head. Where were the boys and Mary? What had they done with them? Where was he and how did he get here? He tried to think about the last thing he remembered and found his recollection fuzzy. In his mind he saw flashes that didn't seem to make sense. Running through a burning house, people he didn't recognize with glittering black eyes….his sons cleaning shotguns in a grungy motel room.

Shock like ice-cold liquid hit him and he staggered to his feet gagging violently. It was the fragmented image in his mind of Sam and Dean handling weapons with such ease – his brilliant scientist, academic sons – that broke the dam and brought the past into focus.

Dean was not a doctor; Sam was not in college. Mary was dead. The demon… John felt for the chilled rock of the wall and slid down it to sit on the ground, his arms folded over his knees and his head cradled on them. Twenty-three years flooded back and broke his heart, again.

It seemed a while, but he had no idea how long it had been when he heard the tapping and as he listened, it became footsteps, steady and careful. Whoever it was making their way toward him had quite a hike and as he listened he cursed himself for dissolving into an emotional puddle. He'd made no effort after his little reality-check to investigate his surroundings and this tactical folly was, frankly, stunning – if he did say so himself.

The footsteps were close now, and he cut off the internal reprimand, opting to think through what he could in the short time he had before the advancing foe arrived. Ultimately, he decided to stay where he was rather than move and find himself in a worse position. Not a good plan, but all he could come up with at this point. Slowly, light began to filter from a now-distinguishable doorway to his right which appeared connected to a long hallway, and he remained on the floor, his back against the wall, waiting.

Someone stood in the arch of door and John couldn't make out any features because of the brightness of the light behind them. Tall, slender, probably a woman – he ran through the rolodex in his head, considering possibilities. He struggled to remember details about how he'd gotten here, hoping for a clue. The figure leaned back languidly against the doorjamb and recognition dawned on John. Tamara. Unmoving, he waited for her to speak, refusing to give an inch, refusing to acknowledge her.

"So, Johnny," she said, her identity confirmed by the odd lilting demonic accent that sent a freezing spike up John's spine. "How are we feeling today? More cooperative?" She wandered slowly toward him, taking her time and continuing to speak. "Such a sneaky, naughty little family you Winchesters are… it was much harder to find you than it usually is."

She was close now – about a yard or so, and she paused and posed, one hand one her hip, inspecting the nails on her other hand. John almost laughed at the childish tactic, used most of the time to set a prisoner at ease, make them feel more comfortable with the bad guys. Even half-dead, it wasn't a ploy he'd fall for. Since she must know that, John wondered why she used it. She did like to strut and preen, he'd noticed. Deliberately, put his head down on his arms again, and he heard her take a step or two forward, almost hesitating.

"You were no fun last night!" she scolded, "I expected more… stamina from a man such as yourself. One itty bitty knock to the head and out cold," she sighed. "I'll have to restrain myself… this time."

John felt his stomach begin to churn as pieces of the previous torture flooded his mind. Tamara ran her hand caressingly over his bowed head and then jerked it up by the hair.

"_Look at me_," she hissed savagely, her black eyes gleaming in the light she somehow brought with her. Her features softened and she let her hand slide lingeringly along John's cheek and jaw, "when we're having a conversation, _darling_."

John met the black orbs, which seemed – impossibly – to hold emotion and nuance. It was not the first time he'd come up against a demon… not the first time he'd come up against_ this_ demon. She called herself Tamara, and she'd given him the first inkling that the evil powers that be had something in mind beyond the simple extermination of his adored wife.

xXx

He'd met her in a bar several years ago and it wasn't until he declined the invitation to go home with her, that he'd realized what she was. She'd been offended by his lack of interest, beat him, hard, and thrown a few nasty (but new) pieces of information at him concerning Sam. Then she indicated that he would do well to enjoy his freedom while he could – in the end her father would let her choose a reward, and then John Winchester _would_ come home with her, for _good_.

Twice since that initial meeting, he'd run up against her. First, about two years later in the case of a teenage girl in Florida with extraordinary psychic abilities – telekinesis, telepathy, even astral projection (which John had never seen up close and for real until then). Tamara had been inconvenienced and infuriated by John's interruption of a horrific ritual meant to strip the girl of her powers and transfer them to a demon and while he'd saved Kendra Prescott, the hunter he'd tagged along with had died in the fight. Now John and Tamara had more than just a conversation between them.

Most recently, she'd showed up at John's motel room in Sellville, North Carolina just less than a year ago; appearing out of the night in a slinky blue-black number to stand over him in his bed, acting like she wanted nothing more out of life than _him_.

John had learned over the years that demons didn't always, actually, have an otherworldly agenda. Like any being obsessed with power, (human or not) they tended to be a little unstable when it came to self-control. When you combined that with the frustratingly slow and completely arbitrary demonic promotion process… occasionally, they just needed someone weaker than they were to take it all out on.

Dominion over others was a huge deal in demon-land, and those who lacked it among their peers made up for it by finding humans to play master-slave with. As much as they'd like the rest of the universe to believe it, the demonic race had just as many selfish, insecure, idiotic screw-ups as any other bunch of beings and this was a weakness that hunters had been exploiting for centuries. If John were asked, he'd say that inbreeding had caused the demons to have more than the genetically expected percentage of idiots, actually. He'd met a number of intelligent "dark lords", but each seemed to have a more supremely inflated ego than the last (which is why most of the ones who met him were dead). They would not win this war without new blood, and they'd finally begun to realize it.

The North Carolina encounter with Tamara had answered a few niggling questions for John but created a good deal of confusion as well. He'd wondered before why she didn't just take him or kill him since he was clearly considered akin to a pet rat to her. She had been furious by the time he'd asked – he'd been taunting her for the better part of an hour as she tortured him, ever since it became clear that she wasn't going to kill him without permission from the higher-ups.

With measured cruelty, Tamara mentioned Sam again and the puzzle began to take shape. John's heart had nearly stopped beating as she complained that her father was making her wait to take John because his precious baby boy wasn't ready to cross over yet. "Daddy" didn't want anything to interfere with the precise order of events he'd worked up so that Sam would end up in the right place at the right time.

The endgame apparently called for Sam to become some kind of demon-human hybrid – "heir to the kingdom", John to become the groom of Franken-bride here, and Dean… well, according to the doting daughter; "father" had no long-term use for Dean. When he'd fulfilled his purpose (which John guessed had to do with maneuvering Sam into the demon's trap), he'd be killed or given to whichever of Tamara's sisters deemed him a suitable prize. Confidentially, she told John that Jodi and Suzette were duking it out for the hazel-eyed hunk, Andrea having lost interest a while back.

John couldn't say which of these three prospects disturbed him most. Not the threats to himself – he'd swallow a shotgun before he went through a shotgun wedding with the little lass in question… but the idea that these demons actually had _plans _for his sons… that his family – Sam specifically – had been sought and stalked by this demonic patriarch for more than twenty years was almost more than he could bear. He finally knew upon which altar his beloved Mary had been sacrificed and the hunt now became more than one of pure avengement. It became one of survival.

xXx

"How are your boys these days, Johnny?" she smirked, crouching near him. "I've missed being able to call you that… Johnny… has such a lovey-dovey ring to it, don't you think?"

John kept his eyes on her, not allowing himself to recoil at her nearness. He wondered idly where he was – she'd never taken him off somewhere before. That was a scary thought. She hadn't seemed to hold back in the alley near the bar they'd first met in, nor last time in his motel room. What kind of predilections would privacy bring out in her?

If he could play his cards right in this maybe he could gather a little more intel before he blacked out from the thrashing he was sure she had in mind for him. The information he'd gained from her last time had led him to the weather patterns, to the other children taken or marked… there were no more loose ends when it came to knowing what had to be done. It was simply a matter of timing now, just as it was for the old man demon himself.

"You know, being a younger sibling may have its perks, but it also has its drawbacks," she pouted. "I'd have taken Sammy in an instant if my big sister hadn't chosen him." She wandered away from him, seemingly lost in thought. "But I didn't get to pick first. You're a good second – I don't mean to make you feel like chopped liver, Johnny," she cooed, turning back toward him and smiling coyly. "I'd choose you over your goody-goody firstborn in any case."

Working hard to hold in a laugh, John remained expressionless. Dean would have her head if he heard that. And yet, John could see the truth to what Tamara said – Sam's motivations had always been complicated and unsure, while Dean… Dean's were complex but clear. He didn't buy into the grey-ness that caused his father and brother to stumble on the line between good and evil. Dean would choose the hard, best, road at any given time without a backward glance. Neither John nor Sam trusted their internal compass further than they could throw it. They had to think things through each time, for better or worse.

"I really do find your sons fascinating in an… insect under the microscope kind of way," Tamara trilled, turning her back to him and pacing toward the doorway.

John decided to test where this was going – she'd been at it a good twenty minutes now and he was feeling a little impatient. He'd rather get it over with sooner than later. Unfolding his arms, he stood in a smooth movement but almost before he was fully upright his head snapped painfully against the wall and he felt himself pinned hard and unable to move his limbs.

Not turning around, she clicked her tongue and pulled a strand of her long auburn hair around her finger, twirling it leisurely. "Now, Johnny, you don't need to get up just for _me_, sweetheart…"

"I'm not your sweetheart and I'm not going to help you kill my boys," he growled.

"Oh, _oh_!" she exclaimed, laying the drama on thickly. "You're _concerned_, now Johnny," she said as she faced him, "you're _worried _are you?" Her laughter was not a pretty sound (though she obviously found herself charming), and John flinched.

Demons had a way of taking reality and either varnishing it within an inch of its life or dumping it in front of you naked and incriminating. He'd noted it in his current journal.

"I don't think you've been paying close enough attention, dearest," she said carefully, as if speaking to a slow child. "My sister has already met your precious baby Sammy, the train has left the station. You can't stop us."

"What do you mean?" John asked evenly, his voice purposely devoid of emotion.

"Don't you wish you knew?" Tamara sauntered towards him, her dimpled grin belying the truculence in her tone. "Not terribly successful in the fatherhood department, _are_ we Johnny," and she added a hint of contrived sadness to her voice. "But then, I only have my father to compare you to, and well…" she leaned in and lifted his chin with her fingertip "there isn't much comparison, _is_ there?"

John resisted the urge to spit in her face. "No one has ever loved their children more than I do," he whispered fiercely.

"_May_-be," she said lightly in a singsong voice, "but love isn't really the issue here, is it?" Her breath brushed across his face and her voice was low and throaty in his ear as she spoke again. "There are many things at play here John Winchester, but love, darling, isn't on the list."

"You –" John bellowed, struggling against the invisible chains. Generally, supernatural monsters couldn't find John's buttons to push – his military training kept him stoic and clever in nearly every situation and normally, imprisonment wasn't enough to break his control. But demons, it seemed, knew how to find a man, even where he'd hidden himself under the armor of soldier and hunter. And they had neither virtue nor compassion when it came to torture.

"Dean's heart gives out, Sam gets locked in a cannibal's cage, big brother's pledging his undying love and the little brother's moving furniture with his mind, Johnny, and where are _you_? Chasing my family so hard that you forget to look after your own? Did you forget who it is that _we're_ chasing? If you're behind us, you can't see what's in front of us…" she slowed in her tongue-lashing and giggled, clapping her hand over her mouth and adopting (again) an almost comical look of astonishment. "But what a stroke of…_luck _for us!" she laughed, sounding for all the world like a cheerful little girl.

John didn't say anything. He'd didn't doubt his sons had been through some bad stuff, but he'd taught them to survive – trained them for battle – and this demoness' biting criticism of his parenting skills wasn't going to get another rise out of him. He'd left his boys in order to finish hunting Mary's murderer alone, and when he'd found out that the demonic collective responsible was preparing to make his youngest child the new devil incarnate and add John and Dean to the breeding stable his focus had shifted. This was bigger than the death of his wife. If he didn't stop it, it would be death of his sons as well.

Yet, after all of this time his obsession with supernatural extinction had created a lone wolf out of him in many ways. He was unused to consulting anyone when a decision needed to be made, and certainly not the kids he'd dragged around and drilled their entire lives. He trusted them as much as he trusted anyone, but that wasn't really saying a lot. John Winchester had been forced to look out for himself for as long as he could remember, and his "trust no one" motto had only been overridden by one person in his life. And she wasn't around anymore.

He had considered, briefly, letting Dean and Sam know that they were the demon's targets. But ultimately, he figured he could get more done, faster, without them… and Sammy wasn't exactly on the believing end of this crusade anymore. Dean would do anything he asked him to, and he was one of the best hunters his father knew…but something in John didn't want to give up his sole hold on the fate of this demon.

It had been his nemesis, even without a name and a face, for nearly half of his life now. While the purpose for destroying it had altered, the end result would be the same and John couldn't get his head or his heart around changing his strategy. When the time came, he'd annihilate the demon alone and he'd likely die in the process. In his mind there wasn't any huge reason to tell the boys or not to tell them. This wasn't their fight, even if it was, now, about them in a way. Regardless, of motivation he'd do what he had always planned to do. Avenge Mary's death and make the world a safer place for his sons.

Lowering her eyes in an imitation of demureness, she looked up at him through long dark lashes. "Things will be so much simpler when we're one big happy family, won't they, my treasure?"

He refused to meet her gaze, close and cloying as she moved back so she could swing, slapping him hard with a backhand that felt like a baseball bat to the face.

"You don't even remember what day it is, do you?" she demanded, cool and vicious.

The wheels in John's mind were turning, trying to think his way through the blinding pain and the slightly double vision he was experiencing. It was April, no… May now. Early, though… the first week maybe.

"Twenty-three years ago, Johnny…" she taunted. "My father's shown him more devoted interest than _you've_ ever managed." Tamara's eyes narrowed and she waited a moment, cackling triumphantly as she saw understanding in her victim's face. "He'll be so much better off with us – for that matter, so will you, Johnny. Meg and I will make sure the Winchesters are taken _such_ good care of!"

John stared unseeing, the words gnawing at his insides like acid. His eyes flew to hers, startled as she spoke again. Tamara's voice was hard and tinged with something raw and dark that made the bile rise in his throat.

"Alright – enough talk, darling. Shall we get down to it?" The force holding him to the stone suddenly let go and he landed on the ground, his limbs tingling and unmovable. "Time for a little fun and then I have to take you home." Sighing, the demon took her foot and planted it firmly on John's wounded left arm, causing him to gasp in agony. "Oh, Johnny. Someday I won't have to return you. Won't that be lovely?"

It was the second day of May. Today was Sam's birthday. He tried to remember where he'd been last year… he knew he hadn't contacted him with even so much as a card since he left for college – too much fury, too much pain. He'd given him the M-21 for his sixteenth birthday… but that was the only gift that stood out in John's beaten-to-a-bloody-pulp mind.

xXx

_He rarely marked holidays and birthdays for the boys, but one day he'd idly glanced at a gun show brochure that came in the mail addressed to Occupant, and there she was. John had never named a gun, and was slightly uncomfortable with the common feeling among hunters of lovingly calling their firearms "she"… but this, this was a beautiful weapon. He'd been thinking of adding another shotgun or rifle to their arsenal for Sam to use as his own, and something vaguely sentimental tugged at him as he read the name printed in glossy red curls: Winchester. _

_He'd spent months looking for that shotgun and had called in a couple of hefty favors to get it and it just happened that the call came for him to pick it up a day or two before Sam's sixteenth birthday. Dean had been hounding him about getting something special for the kid and as Sam opened the box, (which Dean had wrapped), his face brightened in wonder at the gift and the giver. John almost wished that he'd bought the present like a real dad would have – with the sole purpose of seeing that look on Sammy's face – instead of letting coincidence create this moment, and once again, guilt cast its shadow over his title of fatherhood._

xXx

There had never been a time in all the days after Mary's death, in all the months on the road with the boys, in all the haunted years that he'd hunted the evils which had stolen his only true love… that he had resented his children. He'd been frustrated with them and by them, torn inside as he was reminded of his wife by seeing their mother in them now and again, but he hadn't ever wished them gone from his life.

Even when he realized that Mary had been killed because of Sam… it had only angered him more at the demonic monsters whose twisted thirst for power had ravaged his life so completely. It wasn't Sam's fault, even if it was for him that his mother's life had been forfeited. And John could never blame him for it. He would always be glad for his youngest son – always be glad that Sam had been born. Nothing could change that.

John lasted about forty minutes, during which his only conscious thoughts were of Sam and Dean. Things he'd said that he shouldn't have, things he hadn't said that he should have, and things both done and undone that would haunt him 'til he died. Which at the moment he dearly hoped was not going to be today.

He thought about Mary and what she would have wanted for the boys… he thought about the dream he'd had before waking up in this slice of demonic paradise… and every hope he'd hoped, and then soundly crushed beneath the boot-heel of vengeance in the last more than twenty years. This life, this hunter's waltz, had been Hell on his children and somewhere along the line he'd forgotten that they weren't just his. He owed more to his sweet wife than just keeping them alive – the part he'd told himself for years – he owed her the creation of an _actual life_ for them.

John Winchester knew now; Mary's murder wasn't just about her and his obsessive quest to annihilate the demon was justified. But he hadn't known that during Dean's and Sam's childhood, and the satisfaction of being right was sawdust in his mouth tonight. He felt overwhelmingly trapped, by Tamara, by the past, by the future, by the ties that bound him to his family and his horrific grief.

Even as his body felt like it was being bit-by-bit decimated, his soul felt the same. Through the pounding in his head he heard wrenching, convulsive sobbing and the realization that it was coming from him brought him around, his soldier's indoctrination kicking in at the last moment of survival. Opening his eyes, he tried to roll to evade the next round of assaults, and saw the demon's claws emerge from her human fingertips as she raised her hand to slash him.

The last coherent thought John had, was a cruel and tempting double-sided one. He couldn't change it now. But maybe he could.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Author's Note: ** Thanks to all of my reviewers, you've exceeded my hopes for this story and it makes my heart go pitter-pat! As always, I'm thrilled to hear how this chapter makes you feel and wonder about… please share. And don't worry Spuffy – I haven't forgotten "Worry & Care", I promise. _

_If for these last chapters, you could keep your mind open to my take on the world of spirits and the order of the universe… it'll make things much easier. I know I said this was only going to be one chapter, so if think of it as one chapter posted in a couple parts if it makes you feel better (it makes me feel better LOL). There ended up being a lot to talk about. Look for part two up as Chapter Nine in the next few days.  
_

_A nod to Faye for the hit-Sammy-with-a-metal-pipe concept : ) _

_Thanks to Faye and Cynthia and Theresa for their beta-liciousness : )_

_This chapter's for my baby girl, who turned three today : ) _

_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended._

**xXx **

**Chapter Eight**

"Sammy," she whispered, her voice as light as the cool breeze that blew through the dark room.

The sleeping form remained still, and she moved a little closer, sitting on the edge of the bed (close enough to touch him).

"Sam," she spoke again, this time a little louder, feeling slightly foolish at the human habit of trying not to wake the other person in the room. Even after all this time (though it wasn't much from eternity's perspective), she forgot that this sort of a visitation didn't allow anyone but her intended target to hear her. For her youngest son, this would be a dream… her oldest son wouldn't wake to her voice or her image, no matter the volume of the conversation that ensued.

"Sammy, baby," she said, her voice gentle but no longer quiet. "Wake up, honey." A smile crossed her face and she rolled her eyes. If it was anyone but her, she was sure the kid would have been out of bed with a pistol in his hand at the first syllable she'd spoken. John had taught them how to fight and defend, that was for sure. A shadow of heaviness crossed her heart. But there were so many things he'd kept from them; so many things he'd left… untaught.

Reaching out, she put a hand on her son's shoulder – he was broad and tall like her father had been, and it pleased her parents to no end. Daddy still grumbled that she hadn't carried on the Alexander family name, but mother was wistful when they watched Sam. He looked just like James Alexander did at that age, Isadora would say; and she should know – she'd married him when he was twenty-three. Maybe the name hadn't been passed down, but the genes clearly were, and the connection between the generations gave Mary a sense of comfort for some reason.

"Baby boy…" she hesitated.

Flat on his back, Sam was sprawled on the bed as only someone so _tall_ could be. One arm was flung out, his hand trailing off the mattress edge, and the other arm was resting over his head. He slept with the sheets and blankets bunched up cozily around him, and his feet sticking out, and it was a silly, endearing sight. Sam had always hated being confined.

Dean was a swaddle-loving baby. The hospital nurses had shown John and Mary as brand-new parents the "foolproof" way to calm a fussy infant; you wrapped them so tight in a receiving blanket that they couldn't move. Supposedly this "swaddling" made them feel safe, like they were still in the womb. Dean quieted right down the instant you laid him on that blanket and started folding him into it. Sammy screamed louder and didn't stop until he'd managed to work at least one pudgy little arm out to wave in protest, or you gave up and set him free. There never were two peas in a pod, who at the same time were more starkly opposites, than Mary's sons.

She leaned over now, her fingers softly tousling his hair. And what hair it was! It was part of Sam's rebellion, whether he realized it or not, and a familiar longing rolled through her. He probably would have had a mutinous streak in him regardless of her death, she thought with a low laugh, but so much of his recalcitrance was rooted in the pain and confusion of losing her… things would have been easier for Sam if she'd been there.

It was puzzling that the suggestion to visit him had been given _now_, when he was at relative peace. The other times she had asked for permission to come to him were during some of his darkest and loneliest hours and each time the refusal, kind but firm, had come. She knew there was a reason, but she didn't for the life of her know what it was.

Sam stirred a little, turning his face toward the hand on his head, lines of worry briefly creasing the features, which looked so young in this unaware state.

"Sammy, wake up for me," she asked, rubbing his cheek with the back of her hand. "Please?" and then almost to herself, "I'm not sure how long we have."

As she stopped speaking, Sam's eyes flew open and a strangled gasp escaped his throat. In an instant he was scrambling backwards, flattening himself against the headboard and inching towards the opposite side of the bed.

"Dean!" he called, glancing across the room at his sleeping brother. "Dean?" his voice filled with panic now as he searched for any sign of life from Dean who usually slept light and woke to a threat with an eight-inch blade in his hand.

He tore his gaze from his unmoving brother to stare at the ethereal woman sitting on the edge of his bed. She hadn't shifted at all during his attempt at flight and warning. Sam stared as she silently, serenely watched him and then the recognition hit like a steel pipe to the head.

"Mom?"

She smiled, waiting for the fallout of emotion and confusion that was sure to come.

"You're dead," he whispered. "I mean, _really_ dead…Missouri said you were…destroyed when you…saved Jennifer," he finished, clearly filled with incredulity.

She took a deep breath, wondering where to start. "As Mark Twain said, 'the reports of my death have been greatly –"

"– exaggerated," Sam said quietly, completing the thought.

Mary grinned, "That's my boy."

"Are you really here?" asked Sam, sounding fearful and childlike.

"Oh, honey, I'm here," she said, the plaintive note in her son's voice tearing at her. As she spoke, she reached out and placed a hand on the part of him closest to her – his ankle – but Sam flinched and she pulled back, trying to keep the sorrow from her expression. This was to be expected, and she needed to remember that he would need some breathing room as he adjusted.

"What's wrong with Dean?" Sam asked, nodding toward his brother's bed.

"Nothing's wrong Sam… he's not really there. I mean, he is, in the waking world, asleep in his bed, but he's part of the scenery in this dream," she said with slight amusement.

"Dream?"

"You've got a lot of defenses in that head of yours, kid," she explained. "It's more difficult for you to allow yourself to see me when you're awake. And this way, we're not as likely to be interrupted."

"So this," he gestured at the room around them, "is all in my head?"

"More or less. I could have chosen anywhere to meet you – usually people pick something like a meadow or a beach, or my favorite: a mountain top with a great view," Mary said, rolling her eyes.

"So instead of Hawaii I get a crummy motel room."

Mary laughed out loud and the beautiful, unrestrained sound caused Sam's heart to constrict. He looked away, out the window.

"Even the open window? Correction. Customized crummy motel room," he said under his breath, and his mother became quiet. He could feel her watching him and he ignored her, forcing himself to think about the window, trying to escape temporarily from this crazy, crazy moment.

**xXx **

_They'd been here a couple days and the weather was unseasonably warm for the area. There'd been a knock on the door just after they woke up, and the manager was standing there apologetically. Half the rooms in the place had lost their air conditioning and in order to fix them, they had to shut the whole system down – hopefully only for twenty-four hours. He was sorry for the inconvenience; he'd discount their final bill._

_Dean had been furious. They'd been trying to sleep in the closed, hot room for a couple hours when Dean had arisen steaming from his bed (literally) and grabbing his keys, stalked out to the Impala. When he returned, his hands had been full and Sam watched curiously as his elder brother sprinkled, chanted and hung stuff on the curtain rod over the window. It took about ten minutes, and then Dean opened the window as wide as it would go and fell back into bed. Sam couldn't remember ever sleeping in a room with an open window – ever. He chuckled as he went over in his head the things that Dean would risk life and limb for: Dad, Sam, innocent victims, and… uninterrupted sleep._

**xXx** _  
_

He turned his gaze back towards her, feeling more clear-headed, but still worried about this whole thing. It didn't make sense, and he couldn't help but wonder if this was a trick… a sick, twisted trap that some demon had thought up as torture.

"Ask, Sam. I may not be able to tell you everything, but I know you have questions, and I'll help you understand as much as I can," Mary said solemnly.

The pause was a long one, as he tried to decide the best way to question his (dead) mother, and she waited patiently for him to be ready. This would be a hard conversation – Mary had known it would be – and she was wanted Sam to as comfortable as possible. That meant letting him decide how much and how fast.

"How can you be here?" he started, deciding to get the logistics worked out first. "Was Missouri wrong?"

"I'm glad you found her," Mary said. "She's a good person. And to answer your question… she wasn't _wrong_, exactly. Missouri has a lot of gifts, and she honestly shares what she knows. But it's like the way scientists make pronouncements based on evidence. Sometimes their early conclusions are wrong because they just aren't far enough into the research to see the entire picture. Missouri knows more than most, but compared to what's out there in the universe," Mary paused, gesturing expansively, "it's not a complete picture."

"So…"

"So, my connection to the house in Lawrence was severed because my reason to be there was over, and that is what Missouri felt and what you saw happen."

"You'd been there since… it happened?" he asked, uncertain now of what he knew.

"Off and on, when my presence was useful. It was sort of like… the little piece of the universe that I was responsible for making sure was all right. I didn't know when or how, but I knew that there was something else I needed to do there eventually," Mary said.

"Were you trapped?" Sam questioned, his slight agitation evident.

"_No_, sweetie," Mary answered quickly, seeing the troubled look in her son's eyes. "I wasn't trapped. It's one of those things that most people on this plane assume because of what they see. I had a charge. I was supposed to try and protect or comfort those on my… "home turf", I guess you could call it," she said with a smile. "But I came and went." A shadow crossed her countenance. "Sometimes I went home just because I missed you. There are a lot of memories for me there… memories of you and your dad and Dean."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out and he closed it again, staring down at his fingers that without realizing it were tracing the rust-colored cabbage roses printed on the bedspread.

"I've spent time in a lot of places though." Souls aren't "trapped" by locations per say. Sometimes they are so angry or confused or malicious or heartbroken that they choose to stay in a certain place… but they aren't stuck anywhere except by their own perception."

Sam pondered that for a few minutes, and Mary noted his body language subtly changing, relaxing.

"So where… are you? I mean, physically – I mean, _actually_."

She smiled at the confusion of his terms, and for the first time since she'd arrived was rewarded by a shy smile from her baby.

"People call it a lot of things, but the afterlife is much more than simply Heaven or Hell, Sam. Underneath the world you can see with your mortal eyes is a world of… spirit. It's not just one single place… it encompasses more space than the galaxy, and yet is as individual and personal as this room. The afterlife is what you've created while you were mortal… it's not something that probably makes total sense unless you've been there," she said with a grin and something in her look reminded Sam of his brother. "So even though you're brilliant, you're not dead and so that's about all I can really tell you."

"You… still exist," Sam said; a statement and not a question. "What happened to you… at the house?"

"You can't destroy a soul, Sam. Period."

Sam started at this, "Then what do we do to them?"

"You can banish them or bind them to something that keeps them away from a particular place or person… you can cleanse places and people so that no trace of the energy is left… and you can cast out those who would possess. One of these things has happened when you think you've obliterated a non-corporeal entity. Wiping a sentient creature clean out of existence – even a corrupt, fleshless, supernatural one – it takes much more power than either Latin or rock salt holds, in order to do that."

"But you were… we saw you burning … Missouri described it as one of those arcane battles to the death and that you had to sort of…overload your own energy to kill the thing." He was sitting cross-legged on the bed now, arms folded as he leaned against the headboard. It wasn't a totally at-ease position, but neither was it a running-screaming one.

"It would take more time than we have to go over the finer points of energy transfer and spiritual expulsion," she said gently. "And it's not really what I came here to talk to you about, Sammy."

"But –,"

"Some day, sweetie, I promise."

Sam stared hard at Mary, searching her face with a pain and stoicism that made her want to sob. "Why did you come? Why now? Why did you wait so long?"

This time it was Mary that looked away, and then she shifted, climbing onto the bed and assuming a position like his, crossed legs but leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees.

"I wanted to. I tried, Sam. There are… rules. Much of what happens in the spirit world is… organized. There are things to be done, much like there are in this life, and if you're on the side of Good, we work together to make sure the work gets done. Manifestations, interventions, protections… the list is as long and varied as there are individuals…" she stopped, leaning back on her hands and stretching her legs. "Anyway, not the point. The point is, there is a plan. There are instructions to follow," she sighed. "I'm not explaining this well, am I?"

"Not really."

"I had a _post_, Sam, and I know your father has taught you what that means. There were people whose job it was to watch over you and your brother, and even John… but I had other things to do. And the Plan takes into account where it is each of us will do the most good –," she broke off, and Sam, who was looking again at the ghastly roses, brought his gaze up to her face.

His mother was hugging her arms around herself, folded tightly against her chest. Her eyes were shut tight and as her chin rested on her knees. He watched with detached grief as tears spilled over and slid down her cheeks. They sat silently for several minutes as Mary tried to check her emotions and Sam resisted reaching for her.

"Oh Sam. The hardest part of being gone has been being gone from you boys and your daddy. I've watched you your whole lives – that much at least, I could do. And not the blink of an eye has gone by but that I've wished I could be with you… holding you and protecting you and just being your mama." The passion and heartache in her voice was raw, and she searched Sam's face for any hint of softness.

Sam did not respond and he wore a mask of impassivity. Even though she could read him inside and out if she chose, she didn't want to intrude any more than she had to. Let him show her what he would, and decide how much he shared. He deserved the dignity of that, after all the fairness fate had snatched away from him over the years. Still, she had to try and get the issues on the table. This might be a one shot deal and she didn't want to leave things unsaid… un-dealt with.

Taking another deep breath, she sat forward, one leg folded under her and one hanging off the bed. "Will you talk to me? I know this is hard, sweetie and I know you're angry with me –"

"You do?" he snapped, his eyes blazing and brilliant, like his father's could be. "I'm _angry_? And why would I be angry? It's not like you picked being gutted and burned above my crib, right? So what would make you think I'm angry with you? The demon, yes. Dad, for what happened after, yeah. Even Dean sometimes, for making so many sacrifices I didn't ask him to make… but you? You're the only one that didn't have a choice, Mom – it's not like you _abandoned_ me."

His rage had exploded and he practically catapulted away from her and off the bed to stand with his back turned against her lonesome, patient face, his arms folded tightly in both offense and defense.

Mary's whispered voice carried to him, "You were a baby, Sammy, and I left you."

"_You didn't leave!"_ he roared, whirling on the woman now standing behind him, his stature menacing in and of itself.

She flinched at his fury, but her eyes met his steadily. "I did."

An inarticulate cry of anguish escaped him and his face crumpled into the face of a child whose psyche had been cut to a near-lethal depth.

"It wasn't of my own choosing; but your mother took off and left you, Sam – left you at the mercy of a broken, vengeance-struck father and a four-year-old brother."

Stumbling to the foot of the bed, Sam sank down, leaning forward with his head in his hands.

She hated for both their sakes that his walls had to be torn down. It wasn't easy facing more than twenty years of your child's pain and horror. She wished that she understood why this timing was important; why after so many years she was finally here when being with her family all along would have saved them so much trauma. Or if she'd come to Sam as a kid, or even as a teenager… it would have helped… it could have helped them all.

Mentally shaking herself, trying to focus, she made no move toward Sam but started talking again.

"It's alright, Sam. It doesn't have to make sense, what you're feeling. In all of us there's a child, filled with the pent-up emotions of our growing-up. Most people never really resolve that stuff... When we get to be adults, we dismiss those childhood anxieties and torments as ridiculous because those little-kid fears and frustrations don't make sense to our seasoned brains. The feelings are just… there, and I'm not here to judge you for them."

Sam didn't move, but as she took a step closer, she could see him breathing hard, trying to control himself, his hands shaking. It was too much for her and she crossed the space between them in an instant, sitting beside him and taking him in her arms.

Mary was surprised that he didn't flinch or back away; she had fully expected him to. Instead, he dissolved against her, awkwardly because of their difference in size, but nonetheless. She hadn't held Sam since he was six months old, and she thanked the universe for the solidity in this dream-space which allowed her to do so.

It was a strange feeling, remembering the baby that he was, seeing this man and knowing that they were one and the same. He was so much… bigger… how could it be that holding him felt just as it always had? She rocked him, whispering into his hair the things she'd told him when he was tiny, reassurances and declarations of adoration and again, she felt like she was in two places at once. Now, and then. And she wept too.

She didn't know how long it had been, when the emptiness that fills a soul done crying began to envelop them and she leaned back and wiped the drying salt from his face. He didn't look at her, and she felt him withdrawing some, so she stood to retrieve the box of Kleenex from the nightstand, offering it to him as an olive branch and an out.

"If I can hug you, then your nose can run – some days you wonder who makes up the rules, huh?"

This attempt at lightening the mood was rewarded by a red-nosed half-smile and there was instantly heat again behind her own eyes. He was not a baby anymore – and while she knew John would shrink from Sam's emotionality and bemoan the boy's weakness, Mary couldn't help the surge of pride she felt in the young man before her. In spite of the hunter' life, he'd managed to keep some vestige of softness that reminded her of her husband in the early years of their relationship.

John was a "man's man". A marine and a mechanic and a barbeque and football man… and yet he was the most tender person she'd ever known. When the situation called for gentleness and compassion, he had no equal. He'd been a wonderful husband (oh, they argued when they needed to – no one was perfect), and even now, after all that had happened… she would not have chosen a different man to father her sons. She knew almost from the start that John Winchester was the man of her dreams – that he was "the one" – and for better or worse, marrying him had been the right thing. Not that she couldn't work up a fair amount of anger about her children's childhoods… but still, she loved him. And the good in him was still there, even as he tried to forget what it felt like.

"So…" Sam began with some sarcasm, "did God just want us to be friends, or is there a purpose to all of this?"

Snapped from her reverie, Mary looked at her son. "You know, the funny thing is, I'm not sure."

"How can you not be sure? They wouldn't let you come and then they just… sent you on down with no explanation?"

"Pretty much," she said dryly.

"No instructions on how we're supposed to save the world?" he asked, mostly joking.

"Sorry, kid," Mary grinned.

"How long are you in town for?" Sam questioned, the strangeness of the conversation making the words sound warped in his ears.

His mother laughed and flopped down the bed next to him. "I don't know… I don't really know much at all, as you might be noticing."

There was a little silence between them and then Sam spoke again.

"This is weird."

"Yup."

"So can we, like, go somewhere? Or do we have to stay here?"

"Like, you want to go to Hawaii, or you want to go for a walk?" she asked with a smirk on her face that reminded Sam of Dean, in a way.

Startled by the comparison, he looked away and took a deep breath, recovering and turning back to her almost right away. "Well, this probably seems strange, but I'm feeling kind of hungry…"

Mary stood up and ruffled his hair. "Sure thing, Sammy. We can go anywhere we can get to from here. Even Hawaii I suppose, if there's time," she smiled, walking over to the door. "I just can't 'blink' you anywhere," she said rolling her eyes and removing the chain lock. "Another embellishment of the powers of the dead."

"Um, Mom –"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not exactly dressed," he said, pointing to the t-shirt and paisley pajama bottoms he was wearing.

"Aw Sammy, where's your sense of adventure!" She chided, again reminding him eerily of his big brother. He looked so horrified that she walked back over to him and put her hands on his shoulders, looking him seriously in the eye, yet unable to keep the humor out of her voice. "Honey, it's a dream. You're never going to see these people again. They're all _props_, remember?"

Sam visibly relaxed and glanced over at "Dean", who appeared to be sleeping peacefully. He flashed Mary a sheepish smile and they headed out the door. After all, she was still wearing that same white nightgown – the only thing he ever remembered seeing her in.

**xXx**

As they sat in the diner he'd eaten his birthday dinner at, Sam ordered a double-bacon-cheeseburger with onions and mushrooms, a side of shoestring potatoes and an extra large Oreo cookie milkshake. Mary grinned and raised an eyebrow at him.

"What?" he demanded a little defiantly. "If I'm dreaming, I might as well forget about clogged arteries and have a 'Dean special'."

Mary gave a shake of her head and laughed, "I'm not here to nag, Sammy."

Seriousness moved across his features and he picked up the fork that lay near his left hand, letting it weave and twist unconsciously between his fingers.

"But you're not sure why you _are_ here," he said quietly, a statement and not a question this time.

"No. I mean, there are lots of reasons I'd like to be here… just seeing and talking to you, making sure you know how much I love you, and that I am always as close as I can be to you and Dean and your dad… but I don't know why I'm finally able to talk to you now." Leaning forward she rested her head in her hands in the universal gesture for weariness. "Let's try a different direction. Why do you want me to be here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, unless the powers that be are in the indulgence business these days – which I highly doubt – then most likely I am here because of something you need or want from me."

Sam shook his head and looked away. Mary understood the reaction, but asked anyway.

"Why do you think it's _not_ about you?"

He snorted and gave a short, unpleasant, laugh. "Since when are the fates concerned about what _I_ need?"

Mary didn't answer and they sat in silence as the waitress brought Sam's food, then left them alone. His appetite gone, Sam pushed the food away almost immediately. He stared out the window, his countenance so bereft that his mother longed for the table to dissolve between them.

"I really do wish I had better answers for you, sweetie," Mary finally said. After another moment, she stood and came around the table, taking Sam's hand and pulling him up. "Let's walk."

"Where?"

"I don't know, I'm just tired of sitting here," she smiled. "Your father never met a diner he didn't like, but me? Not so much."


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's Note: I want to apologize that this last chapter has taken so long to get out – returning home required a lot more energy than I anticipated. This chapter picks up mid-conversation, so you may want to go back at least read the previoys chapter._

_This is the first piece of fiction I've completed since about sixth grade (many, many moons ago) and I really want to thank everyone who has read and reviewed for their encouragement and support. I've loved writing for you!_

**Chapter Nine**

It was not night outside, strangely and the sunshine and comfortable breeze mimicked that of Sam's earlier walk with his brother. After they'd gone a few blocks, Mary stopped someone who was coming out of a pottery shop and asked if there was a park nearby. Following the directions, they wandered away from Main Street, coming easily to an expansive green space.

It was golf-course clean, with a small lake in the center that had a myriad of ribbon-like tributaries running into it. Wrought iron benches, neatly trimmed trees and small immaculate flower beds gave the impression of furniture in a living space instead of a luscious garden... but it was a comforting place for those whose minds and hearts were in turmoil. It was a perfect place for Sam.

In unspoken unison, they chose a bench near the edge of the lake and sat, Sam leaning back and folding his arms over his chest and Mary pulling her knees up, her toes peeking out from the soft white of her nightgown as she settled in.

Bird songs fluttered in the air and there was a crisp laziness to the scene surrounding mother and son as they sat together, each lost in their own thoughts. Sam started as Mary spoke.

"How are things with your dad?"

"Like what kinds of things?" Sam asked, his voice tired and a little guarded.

"Between you and him, between him and Dean… in general…" she trailed off as Sam rolled his eyes and focused on the grass about three feet in front of him.

"You don't get reports?"

"I told you, I'm not around all the time, and other than general everyone's-okay-or-not-okay, not necessarily," she paused and forged ahead. "Sometimes I am watching and what I see, I have to admit to not being overly thrilled about."

"Well, 'Happy Little Winchesters' kind of went out the window when you went up in smoke," Sam snapped, and then glanced an apology at her.

Mary sighed. There was the anger again. It was _justified_ rage, but it worried her. He didn't really have anyone to talk to and after all of the tragedy in his life, he needed to let some of it out. She wondered if he'd done much of that with Jessica, but thought it was unlikely.

"I know things aren't good right now –"

"Things have never been good with him, Mom, at least not that I can remember."

"He wasn't always like this, Sammy –"

"_Save it_, okay?"

"What?"

"I don't need to hear about how underneath it all he's really just a _great _guy who needs my undying devotion and deserves my respect no matter what he's done – I get enough of that trash-talk from Dean."

"Sam –"

He stood, running his hands through is long hair and pacing in front of her. Lowering his voice, he spoke with tight control. "I believe Dad loves us. I believe he's tried to keep us alive and safe. I understand that he was traumatized and heartbroken at losing you," he paused and turned to look at her briefly. "But he wasn't the only one."

"I know," she whispered.

"Our childhood could have been worse, I know that," he said, the frustration fading from his tone.

"And it could have been better."

Sam nodded and looked away, but not before Mary saw the glistening of his eyes.

He spoke almost penitently as he sat back down on the bench. "I know Dad loves us," he repeated. "I just hate what his crusade has done to our lives. It's like we lost you both."

"I'm so sorry, Sam," she said softly, reaching over and placing a hand on his knee. "I wish it had been different." Then she pulled her hand back, trying to give him space to breathe…space to speak.

"It's been hard for me… but easier in some ways than it has been for Dean. I mean, I had him and he made up for a Dad so much of the time. It wasn't until I started to realize how different our family was from other peoples' that I got angry… but Dean knew from the beginning how horrible things were. He had something to compare living on the road and eating nothing but mini-mart cuisine to…"

Sam's voice became barely audible as he leaned forward with his head in his hands. "Dean remembers you. He remembers having a home and being safe and happy."

"And he remembers your father."

Her son's head shot up at this and he turned to look at her. The wheels were turning in his mind and she could see that he hadn't considered this before.

"I will not excuse him, Sam," Mary said evenly. "John has been neglectful to the point of abuse and one day he will have to answer for that, to you _and _Dean… and to me." Tears welled up in her own eyes, but she didn't look away. "I will not excuse him," she said again. "But I love him… both for the man he once was and for the man he still has the potential to become. And even for parts of who he is right now, I guess. Pain does crazy things to people – and I don't say that as a cop-out, I say it because it is a valid reason that people end up doing stupid, hurtful things to each other."

Sam was quiet as he looked out over the placid lake. "Dean's never talked about Dad… what he remembers about Dad before the fire."

"Have you ever wondered?"

"Not really," Sam answered, hesitation in his voice. "I never thought of him as someone other than the person I saw. By the time I was old enough to have considered it, he scared me too much – made me too angry – for me to care." He looked at Mary, "He was a scary guy a lot of the time, Mom."

"Was?" Mary asked with a hint of humor.

"Okay, he's still a little scary."

"I'll go along with that."

"You get to watch him sometimes, too?"

"Yes." Her eyes got a far away look in them as flashes of the horrors she'd seen John deal with over the years filtered through her mind's eye.

"So what _was_ he like," Sam asked in a hushed voice, interrupting his mother's reverie.

A soft smile found its way to Mary's lips and she thought for a minute or two before she spoke. "Patient. Gentle with you and Dean. A good listener. Generous…" she stopped as she saw the look on Sam's face. "Hard to believe?"

"Patient and gentle are not exactly words I equate with John Winchester."

"I know – but he was different. That's why I picked him out to be your dad," Mary grinned, "That and he was drop-dead gorgeous."

"Okay – let's not head that direction."

"What? It's true. He's still that handsome, actually, if you ask me."

"Um… I didn't," Sam said with a laugh.

"Right," said Mary, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. "Where was I?"

"Generous."

"Yes. He'd give a stranger the shirt off his back, and he and Mike had more than one set-to about the 'free' work your dad did on the side for people who couldn't seem to catch a break," she paused as memories continued to flood back to her. "He always took one of those 'angel tags' from the Christmas tree they put up at the bank…the ones to donate presents for kids in foster care."

"A regular Mother Teresa."

"Well, not so much on the nun side of things…" she trailed off with a slight smirk as Sam grimaced. "Sorry. Moving on."

While she understood her son's discomfort in hearing that his parents had actually _had_ a romance, she wanted him to know. Not every detail of course, but Sam's idea of loving relationships was a bit skewed… although he'd managed pretty well with Jess as a teacher from what Mary could tell.

John Winchester had been a passionate and considerate husband – one who remembered things like her favorite flower and that sometimes a woman preferred having the dishes done to being given a box of chocolates (but not always). She wished the love letters John had written her had survived the fire... but then she wished a lot of things had survived the fire. The list included the innocence of her sons, the hope of her husband and, well, herself. Mary shifted on the bench, putting her feet down on the grass and leaning her head against the back, her hands resting loosely on her stomach.

Sensing the shift in her mood, Sam looked over at his mother. When she spoke again, it was barely more than a murmur and he had to lean closer to hear what she was saying.

"We were your dad's life. He was so happy."

"I don't know if I've ever seen Dad really happy," Sam said softly, his own tone contemplative.

"Did you wonder why you never met any relatives? Why you three were just… alone in the world?"

Sam looked at the ground, his brow wrinkled. "I remember asking Dean. He just said he thought you were both orphans."

"I suppose that's true enough."

"I went through more than one phase where I kept hoping for somebody to come out of the woodwork and scoop me up… save me from the misery that was my life," he said with a short laugh. "Eventually Dean convinced me to let it go… he thought it worked that time because he'd converted me to the 'Dad Needs Us' club."

"But?"

"But it was really me that needed Dean – when it came down to it, I knew Dean would never leave Dad and I couldn't imagine being anywhere without Dean. I was about ten the last time I wished for a long-lost relative. I guess I always thought we were kind of like Superman… dropped out of the sky from no where."

Mary smiled, "Apt comparison. The Winchesters seem to have the orphan thing down pat – and the evil-fighting-hero thing too.

"Dad really was an orphan?"

"He never knew his family," Mary said slowly.

"Meaning he wasn't?"

"Now, yes. But he still has family. He just doesn't know it."

Sam stared at her, speechless for an instant and then spoke. "What do you mean he has family? _We_ have family?"

"Your father's pain runs deep, Sam… the tragedy in his life started before he was even born."

"But how could he not know? Why didn't he ever try to find out?" Sam was standing now, pacing and furious. "We've _needed them_, Mom. So many times we needed someone – Dad needed someone! Dean and I were just kids – we couldn't take care of him!"

Mary's voice was calm as she spoke, but it also held a note of firmness that caused her son to stop and listen to her.

"Listen to me Sam. Your father had _no_ way of knowing he still had relatives. He'd been alone his whole life."

"And how's that?"

"His father was a miner – worked in a coal mine in northwestern Pennsylvania. Charlie Winchester was killed in an explosion in November of 1956, just before your dad was born. John is the youngest of ten children, seven of whom were living at home still – "

"Ten kids?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"Yes –"

"Are they alive? I don't understand…"

"If you'd let me finish a sentence, I could explain, sweetie," said Mary gently."

Sam nodded and looked out at the water, then collapsed on the bench with a loud exhalation.

"When your grandfather died, your grandmother started to fall apart. She thought she was done having children – her last baby was five years old at this point. To be alone, to be having a baby at nearly forty… Sadie had no way to support her family, and no one to help her. She was only seventeen when she married Charlie, and her family hadn't been pleased about the match – she hadn't spoken to them in more than twenty years." Mary paused and looked at Sam, but he wouldn't meet her eyes, so she continued.

"The Winchesters lived in a poor, rural area. The two oldest daughters, Ruby and Maggie had married and moved. One to California, the other to Philadelphia – almost a week's drive from the Winchesters in Gap Springs.

Charlie and Sadie didn't have indoor plumbing or electricity… they were happy enough because they loved each other dearly, but life was very, very hard. Charlie died and your father was born less than a week later. The delivery almost killed Sadie.

The three oldest boys all worked at the mine and one day when your father was only a few months old, they came home from work and found Sadie and the rest of the children gone. No note, none of the neighbors knew where they were. When she returned a week and half later, the children – five of them under the age of twelve – were not with her.

Within the year she was dead, but it wasn't until the few hours before she died that she finally told them what she had done. She'd given them up."

"Given them up?" Sam gasped, his face draining of color.

"They buried Sadie and they tried to find the children… but no one knew where she'd taken them."

As they sat for a few minutes without speaking, Mary could feel the emotion pouring off of Sam in waves.

"He doesn't know about his brothers and sisters?"

"All your father knows is that he was left on the steps of the state orphanage with his name and age pinned to the blanket his was found in. The children were separated – sent to different facilities or adopted by the time he would have been old enough to ask questions."

"I can't believe they separated them! Why didn't Dad ever look for them? Why didn't anyone try to find him? I mean, how hard is it to go through records and narrow things down?" Sam demanded indignantly.

"Times were different," said Mary simply. "Records were not open or… hack-able… the way they are now. They really did try Sam… but there weren't as many resources and communication and information have changed a lot in the last fifty years."

Sam let out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "So we have aunts and uncles. Cousins."

"You do. But I want you to think very carefully before you go looking for them."

"What?"

"I know what you're thinking," said Mary seriously, "and I'm not saying you shouldn't ever do it… but there will be consequences, for you and Dean and also for your dad. Listen to your heart and not just the detective in your head that loves a challenge, or the little boy that wants a family. When the time is right and the circumstances are right, you'll know."

Sam didn't answer immediately, but after a moment he spoke again. "What about your family?"

"I was an only child of only children. My parents were killed in a car accident just after your father and I were engaged."

"So you know all this because you're there? On the 'other side'?"

"Yes."

"You can talk to other people who are… dead? Anyone?"

"For the most part."

He opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it again and sighed, shaking his head. Unfolding his arms, leaned forward a little, bracing himself on either side with a palm against the cool, dark iron of the bench.

Mary watched his internal conflict and wondered if she should just speak up and make is easy on him. It didn't take a ghostly brain-reader to know where Sam's mind was heading, given the current line of questioning.

"I… can I ask…" he began, struggling to vocalize his thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he stared out at the lake – calm and still, in complete opposition to the commotion inside of him. "Have you seen Jess?"

Reaching over, she placed her hand on Sam's and spoke gently, "Yes, sweetie."

He hadn't realized how much tension he was holding on to until she replied, and he leaned back against the bench, stunned and yet not; he'd figured as much… wanted as much.

"Were you going to tell me?" he questioned, the query honest and devoid of anger.

"I figured you'd ask."

Another pause in their conversation and then Sam seemed to rouse himself, and turned to his mother. "So I'm asking. You've seen Jess – have you talked to her? Is she okay? Does she… will I ever…" his words jumbled themselves in both heart and mouth and he stopped, his eyes imploring her to tell him what he needed to hear."

"She's fine, Sammy," Mary soothed. "I promise she is… I see her a lot these days."

"You do?" he said, clearly startled.

"I do," she smiled, "Seems she's part of this little club I've got going…"

"Club?"

"Oh yes," Mary grinned – a Dean grin (though it was probably the other way around, Sam figured). "We Worry For Winchesters – small but devoted membership."

"She… worries?"

"Yes, honey, she does. Just like me, and your grandparents and a host of other people."

"Does she forgive me?"

This time it was Mary who was surprised. "Forgive you for what?

Sam stared at his mother, stone-faced and waiting.

"What would you need forgiveness for, Sam?"

He swallowed hard and looked at his hands, and finally replied softly, "She died because of me. I lied to her, and I didn't protect her… and the demon came after me and took her. Just like it took you."

"Is that what you think? You think it was your fault?"

"Well, you have to admit," he said humorlessly, "it's a pretty big coincidence. The only thing you two have in common is me."

She was kneeling in front of him in an instant, her hands on his own. "Sammy, look at me – sweetie, it was _not_ your fault. You were not responsible for Jessica's death – do you hear me?"

Mary ducked her head, trying to get him to meet her gaze… but it was as if he were frozen.

"And you're not responsible for my death either."

At this, he started and once she had his eyes locked on hers she began to talk again.

"Jessica doesn't blame you Sam, no one does. You have_ never done anything _to cause this demon to come after you, and you can't prevent what you didn't know was coming,"

"But I ignored the dreams, Mom. And I didn't tell her what… what she was in for. What she was signing up for when she decided to be with me." The anguish in his voice nearly pulled Mary's heart out of her chest.

"Oh, Sam," she exclaimed, moving to the bench in a swift, smooth motion and putting her arms around him. "It's not like you knew you were being stalked by the demon – you thought you'd left the hunt. There was no reason to tell her until you were ready… until you felt like the time was right. Warning her would not have saved her, sweetheart."

"But the dreams…"

"Did you know what they meant? Had you ever had a premonition like that before?"

"No…"

"Then how are you responsible?"

Sam didn't reply and Mary could feel him trembling with tightly controlled emotion.

"There was nothing you could have done."

"But it was because of me… my…abilities. I have something this demon wants, and it won't stop until it has me or it's destroyed me – piece by piece by destroying everyone I love." He'd pulled back as his voice rose, and now sat in visible frustration, ankles and arms crossed tightly, his gangly height giving the illusion of a sprawl.

"You don't know that, Sam."

"It's a pretty easy conclusion to come to, Mom."

At this, Mary looked away, realizing that he would easily see through continued reassurances. She might not know the whole story, but she knew that Sam was most likely closer to the truth than not.

"You didn't cause this Sam, you didn't start it. Just as good can be chosen, evil can be chosen. We are here right now – our family is in this position, because of the evil choices of others… others who have been trying to tip the balance of power in the universe for longer than you've been alive."

She placed a hand on his shoulder and rubbed gently. "This fight – it's older than us all," she paused and smiled wryly. "Not to make you feel ordinary, sweetie, but this isn't even about you particularly. You're one piece of a very large puzzle… the demon is another. He could have picked anyone, but he picked you, and now the fight between good and evil is on your doorstep.

There are people who spend their entire lives not sure if the world of the supernatural actually exists, living relatively safe lives, unable to recognize or fight the monsters that evil sends marching forth. They do their part, and it's a worthwhile, necessary part – but they do it in a less dangerous field.

They plant gardens and teach kids how to read while you…" she searched for the second part of the analogy. "You catch bad guys and put out unholy fires. There are people who become part of the eternal battle for human souls in a very tangible and extraordinary way, Sam. You and Dean and your father are those people. What you do makes a difference, and each of you were born with the special gifts you need to take this fight to another level."

"What do you mean?" asked Sam, his eyes widening.

"Most of what I know, I can't tell you," she said, her expression clearly showing her displeasure with the situation. "Just know that what you do has a purpose… there is a purpose to all of it."

Sam sighed and looked away from her and then spoke almost inaudibly. "Is it really worth it?"

"Yes – "

"I mean really, Mom," he said, turning to face her, "if you've been watching then you've seen what we've had to do… the instability, the dishonesty, the blood and the death and the destruction…"

As his voice trailed off he looked at her pleadingly, hoping she could tell him that it was okay to stop, that he'd been right all these years about the horrors he'd lived and the loneliness he's felt.

Mary felt her eyes begin to burn and that sensation of someone standing on her chest, compressing her ability to breathe. "Oh, Sammy."

"How can this be a good thing? You've seen what this 'fight for right' has done to Dad – and what about Dean?" He set his jaw and gave a chuckle that was not intended to indicate humor. "Sometimes I think Dean's the sacrificial lamb in all this – my power drew the demon in, the demon killed you, you dying turned Dad into a walking dead man with a one track mind for revenge… and poor Dean just got dragged along for the ride. At least I've had a taste of normal – thanks to my brother – but what has he had? Since he was four years old, _what has he had but pain and loss?_" Anger seethed from his entire being, and Mary felt frozen at the strength of her son's anguish.

"This shouldn't be his fight… he shouldn't have had to give up everything… everything…" at this Sam choked and the tears began to leak from his eyes. "He could so do much – he could be so much! It's not _fair_!"

"You're right Sam," said Mary quietly, "it's not fair."

His gaze shot to hers in an instant of hope.

"And yet, it is what is."

"Yeah, whatever – "

"Sam, if it wasn't you and Dean, it would be someone else." She turned his face with her hand, forcing him to look at her as she spoke. "I hate what this has done to you and your brother. All I wanted was safe, happy, wonderful lives for you both. But from where I am now, I see that someone has to…" she smiled grimly, "someone has to save the world, Sam. And as much as I wish I could hide you boys away and keep you from this fight because I am your mother and I'd do anything to save you … As your mother, I also believe that there is no one I'd rather entrust the fate of all that is good and right to, than my own strong, brilliant sons."

The last words were spoken in a whisper and Mary pulled Sam into her arms, holding him as though she'd never let go.

"I know this is hard Sam," she said, soft and fiercely into his shoulder, "I know it is… and I am sorry. But I know you can do this. You and Dean can do this and you'll be alright. You have the courage and the power to turn the tide."

* * *

They sat together for what seemed like forever and still not long enough and then as if they both sensed the sand running thin through the hourglass, they stood with silent coordination. They walked slowly back the way they came and as they reached the entrance to the park, Sam spoke. 

"I miss you, Mom."

"I know honey," she paused, looking at him tenderly, "I wish things were different… I wish I could be here for you all the time."

Sam let out a long slow breath and Mary could see the bleakness on her son's face. As she'd done before, often, she cursed the universe for its cruelty in separating her from her family, and blessed it for the moments of sweetness that came occasionally like today. She stopped walking for a moment.

"Sammy. I want you to remember how much I love you and Dean and your daddy. You were my life, my sunshine… and that will never change no matter what plane I happen to be existing on.

Dean has held you all together for a long time with his memories of my love for the three of you. Now you have some memories of your own. Love your father, Sam, and take care of your brother. And remember that no matter how you feel sometimes, you are never alone."

With this, Mary pulled him into an embrace that started awkwardly, but quickly became as powerful and perfect as it should have been.

"Mom!? Mom, what's happening?" Sam demanded anxiously. Mary opened her eyes, no longer feeling his arms around her, his voice reaching her from seemingly far away.

Instinctively she looked down at her hands and saw herself rapidly becoming more and more transparent. Smiling sadly at Sam, she reached out to reassure him and then realized the uselessness of the gesture.

"You're waking up, sweetie, that's all –"

"No – NO!" he insisted, "I need more time! I need you!"

"I know Sammy, but I can't stay –"

"You have to stay!" Sam was shouting now, but Mary could feel the veil being drawn between their worlds and she couldn't stop it.

"I love you, Sam…"

In the blink of an eye, they were back in the motel and Mary watched as Sam bolted upright out of sleep, an agonized cry pushing its way into the cool dawn air that filed the small room.

Dean was instantly at his brother's side, demanding reassurance. Mary saw the fear in his eyes and she watched Sam, waiting to see him choose a course. As she had for twenty-some years. As she always would.

"I love you, Sam," she whispered, knowing he couldn't hear her anymore but needing to say it still – as she'd done so many times while rocking her boys to sleep. "_I'm glad you were born_."


End file.
